


Development milestones

by HOverSeas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "stay with me", Adrenaline, Asphyxiation, Bleeding Out, Child Abandonment, Delirium, Don't Move, Don't copy to another site, Dragged away, Embrace, Explosion, Happy Ending, Human shield, Humiliation, Isolation, John Whump, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is a villain, Muffled scream, Not Canon Compliant, One Word Prompts, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Ransom, Recovery, Scars, Secret Injury, Shaky Hands, Sherlock Whump, Stab Wound, Stitches, Tear-stained, Trembling, Unconscious, Whumptober 2019, abandoned, beaten, gunpoint, hallucination, laced drink, no Eurus on my watch, numb, pinned down, shackled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2020-11-09 05:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 33,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HOverSeas/pseuds/HOverSeas
Summary: Takes after they come back from Morocco. Mary never died, but her bad decisions still follow her around. John, Sherlock and Rosie need to deal with the consequences.Written for Whumptober 2019. Each chapter is a prompt, posted every day of October.





	1. Shaky hands

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still working on that AU I promised like, three years ago, but I swear I'll get around and post it. To motivate me to write I took the whumptober prompts and applied to a story idea that I already had.
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language (if there is some wrong grammar, please tell me).

John unlocks his bike from the rail outside the clinic, throwing an 'Afternoon!' to Martha, the fellow nurse who passes by him walking in the Tube direction. On the other side of the street the bakery flicks on the shop facade lights, as the sky got yellow strikes and the light blue faded slowly. A guy in a grey jacket eating a croissant just blinks at newly illuminated spot.

John isn't much thrilled to come back to Mary's house, as he started to call it, but Rosie was there. She started to smile when he arrived, wobbly arms supporting the raising head that turned to the sound of him entering the nursery. 

Sherlock's response to that had been 'It's the appropriate development milestone for a three months old child, John, don't get so enthusiastic.', but he had smiled all the same and John saw him surreptitiously taking a picture of her new development milestone on his phone when he thought John wasn't looking.

He pushes forward the bike, turning left at the corner and avoiding a motorbike that started right behind him. Rush hour was so not his favourite.

After they came back from Morocco he and Mary were not on speaking terms, and it's been a couple weeks already. The strained silence and the mucking about the house purposefully to avoid touching or being in the same room made John brittle. She didn't bother apologizing and he wasn't going to ask.

He looks around to check for any cars before crossing to other side of the avenue. He lets a bus and two cars pass by and pushes the bike again, when a motorbike crosses quickly in front of him. 'Excuse you.' he mumbles between gritted teeth to the man's back. 

They only talked to each other about Rosie, and every interaction was functional. Two nights ago he had fallen into temptation and texted **E** while Mary slept beside him, all the way across the bed. The danger made his lower belly flutter with desire to _do something _, but not knowing what. He felt a bit hollow after talking to her, so he invited Sherlock to come by and check if Rosie also smiled to him (she did).

He needs to fix this situation, but _how_? He did go all the way to another continent to get his wife back, however, during the flight back it occurred to him that perhaps she hasn't wanted to be rescued. He had followed the signal from the implanted GPS, perplexed at the long way she took just so she wouldn't be noticed. She also never told him what she was doing in the during the travel.

Suddenly the bike tumbles on a discarded rock and he almost falls on the pavement. Dismounting the bike, he tosses the rock aside and inspects the wheel for any damage. Finding none he straightened back, prepared to have a go again, when he notices the parked motorbike some feet ahead of him.

It was the same motorbike that had been behind him at the clinic's street. He now realises that he had in fact acknowledged its presence close to him all the way from there, without paying attention. The pilot has the closed helmet on, and wears a grey jacket. The one who had been in front of the clinic, watching him. He now monitors any movement from the rearview mirror.

_You see but you don't observe_

As he climbs his bike, calculating the best course of action, grey-jacket-pilot turns to look directly at him. John's heartbeat can be felt from his throat. He can't see the man's face, and can't for the life of him remember what he looked like in broad daylight. It was getting darker, and all the street lights were on, creating shadow behind him.

The guy could be an assailant, but John doubts it. Those people were usually very straightforward. Human trafficking, for all the years working on crime, is usually more subtle than this. Something in his gut was telling him this is personal, and not random at all.

_Rosie is home_

He climbs the bike and rides forward, ignoring the motorbike slow behind him. About ten minutes later, where he normally turns right to go deep in the suburbs, some blocks from home, he keeps going ahead, without even moving his eyes in that direction. Reaching the main avenue, busy with people and traffic, he enters a park where he knows the man would need to leave his motorbike to follow him.

His pulse is sky high. He keeps circling in the park, avoiding all the gates and looking around every second. He finally stops by a tree near a sideway entrance, twenty minutes later. Pushing the bike on his feet, he scrutinizes the street from the gates. People are coming and going quickly. The traffic has increased if anything. The shops across the road are still bustling, even if it was all dark now.

Nobody seems to be waiting for something. The motorbike is nowhere to be seen. Still on foot, he crosses the street at the traffic light, checking all around him. When he feels safe enough, he mounts the bike and rides as quick as possible. He takes the long way home, and only stops in front of the house after a couple minutes circling the block, making sure he's by himself.

Usually he parks the bike near the car, but he decides to put it away in the garage lot, throwing a plastic cover over it. When he holds the key in place to open the door, his hands are so shaky he almost drops it.

Mary is giving the bottle to Rosie in the living room. She doesn't really like to breastfeed, so she usually pumps it out many times a day and saves the excess in the fridge. Having already lots of bottles stored helped a lot when she ran away.

She looks up at him with a blank face when she notices him standing over them, breathing heavily. 'What?'.

He puts his hands on his waist, trying to level them. 'I was being followed.'

She sighs and looks back down. One would think she was regarding their daughter's contented face, but John knows she's checking how close the bottle was from emptying. As soon as it does, she passes Rosie to him and goes to the kitchen to put the bottle in the sink. The routine is: John feeds her the bottle (when he's home in time), makes her burp, eats dinner Mary has cooked, puts Rosie to sleep and washes the dishes.

He is still nauseated, so he decides to skip dinner. Rosie burps happily and loud by his ear, and starts to babble the baby language. 'Hey lovely, how you doing?' he whispers to her, already able to smile a bit. She drools on him.

'Word has spread out, I'm afraid.'

He looks up at the doorway she's leaning on, one arm crossed over her belly and the other raised at eye level so she can inspect her fingernails. 'What you mean?'

'That I'm alive. Ajay has been talking before dying.'

He breathes deeply through his nose. That would explain the whole ordeal. 'And so what now?'

She shrugs. 'I don't know. I'm here aren't I?', and smiles thinly.

This is what scares him more.


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say: I'm taking some liberties with Rosie's age and how much time passed since they came back from Morocco, so the timeline makes sense to me.
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language (any wrong grammar please let me know).

John is very much aware that Mary is planning something, but he's not Sherlock Holmes, he can't deduce a whole story out of a dirty stain on her pocket or they way she turns a doorknob. Since that's the case, he opts for consulting the man himself, who right now seems more interested in conducting a behaviour experiment with Rosie.

'So, does she prefer throwing the rattle or the giraffe?' he asks, taking a sip of the coffee he just prepared.

'Now you're just mocking the scientific method.' Sherlock doesn't pay much attention to him, writing on his clipboard. Rosie throws the stuffed giraffe on his face for the third time in the morning, which he apparently doesn't register. 'Her capacity of holding light objects is quite average for her age, which is satisfactory.'

'Cheers!' he lifts the mug to emphasize the salute, sitting down on the sofa, since his daughter now occupies his armchair.

He finishes his coffee while watching the news, letting them play for a bit more. Some politics screwing over the general population as usual, Brexit negotiations which John was pretty sure had Mycroft's fingerprints all over, footage of polar bears starving in the melting North Pole, Kate is pregnant _again_? Good lord…

'What happened?'

He starts in surprise. Sherlock is now sitting beside him, sleepy Rosie bundled in his arms. He hadn't noticed it was already her morning nap time, but she sure went down like clockwork. He lowers his voice and tells Sherlock what happened yesterday, to what he listens with a furrowed brow.

'So Mary still has people wanting revenge? Who does she think it was?'

'I don't _know_, Sherlock. Do you really think she tells me anything?' he replies between gritted teeth, careful to not raise his tone. Rosie breathes peacefully.

Sherlock blinks several times. 'I thought… she had accepted our help when she came back wit-'

'Well, it's never that simple with her, is it?'

Sherlock looks back at Rosie, brushes a lint on her baby suit. John closes his eyes for a second, inhaling sharply. 'Sorry. But honestly, I don't trust Mary and I don't fancy having people looking for our house and making Rosie vulnerable. And I may be an idiot but she's not, she knows her steps and won't divulge any of them.'

He carefully passes Rosie to John, and takes his phone from the coffee table, typing quicker than John could ever try, as usual. 'What are you doing?'.

Sherlock side smirks. 'Summoning up proper help. Luckily for us, Wiggins now has a phone.'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Really? That little thug is your idea of proper help?'

'Street forces, John!' he replies getting up, spinning around gleefully. 'They see everything and they hear everything, and no one looks at them twice. My irregulars will keep an eye in the suburbs, I'll tell you if something comes up.'

-*-

He's still wary of leaving Rosie with a sitter for the afternoon, but the twenty-something girl was recommended by Molly. Daughter of a work colleague or something like that. Mary has her annual appointment with her gynecologist in central London so she will take the car and pick Rosie up after that. 

Having dropped her he goes home. There's still time to take a shower before leaving for work. He will take the bus today instead of cycling. Mary is blow drying her hair when he enters their bedroom. 

'She's at Joyce's. I told her you'd pick her up at 3:30.' he says while looking for a clean shirt in their wardrobe. Mary just hums in response, turning off the blow drier and gathering her purse, laying over the bed.

He enters the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He undresses to his pants, going to the digital scale in a corner. He distracts himself for some moments analysing the displayed numbers. He lost three pounds since last week, and he still wants to go down another six at least. At the beginning of their marriage, before Mary decided shooting people was a good way out of her problems, she used to tease him about his newly gained weight. Which was why he decided to cycle to work, killing two birds with one stone: losing weight and avoiding talking to her in the idle time of commute. In retrospect, he should have suspected something was off with them.

He is considering taking the bike from the back of the house (surely we wouldn't be followed again?), when a loud blast makes him deaf.

By instinct he ducks and plasters himself to the linoleum floor. His ears are roaring, a constant vibration in his head muting all the sounds from outside. He opens his eyes, not having registered closing them, but the edges are all blurred. He fumbles the floor, it doesn't seem shaky or broken. For a long minute he doesn't understand at all what is happening.

It's the acrid smell that pulls him out of his trance. Heavy smoke and oil burning, but not coming from inside. The small window close to the shower shows a vision from hell, wind blowing the dark smoke away from the house, heat so strong John can see its reflection in the mirror.

He throws on his bathrobe and runs downstairs, and outside. Mary is standing near the door, holding onto the handrail, watching their car burn. Some neighbors are gathering outside already. Mrs. Mahmasani is talking to 999 on her phone, he's able to overhear even over the cracks from the fire eating the vehicle away.

'It was in the engine.' Mary says quietly. 'I turned on the car and heard a strange noise. I ran back here without turning it off, and it exploded.'

They keep watching the spectacle frozen in place. Soon the firemen arrive, and start working on putting out the fire. 

'We will need to talk to the police.' he says finally, strained as his voice almost fails him.

'And tell them what?' she replies sardonically, 'Explain why there are people wanting to kill me? Expect they put me on victim protection?'

'Not everything is about you.' he sniffs and narrows his eyes at her. 'What if Rosie was here, uhm? Are you going to tell me who this is?'

She stares right back at him, wearing the blank face he learned to despise. 'Honestly, I don't know. Could be anyone.'

'Did you piss off that many people?' he growls. The back of his neck feels hot.

She goes back inside without answering. 

'Sir?'

He turns to the fireman calling him. Apparently the fire is almost fully controlled. 'Are you the owner of the car, sir? I have some questions.'

He sighs.


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.
> 
> Also: it's still October 3rd in my time zone! Late but still today.

'Dr. Watson, call for you on line 3, I think it's your babysitter?'

'I'll take it Martha, thank you.'

He keeps holding the file from his last patient, who just left the office, so he doesn't forget to archive it correctly. Mr. Doyle needs a pain meds prescription almost every month for his arthritis so it always needs to be readily available. He dials line 3. 

'Hi Mr. Watson, it's Joyce.' she says in a clear false cheer as soon as he takes the call. 'It's just that Rosie is still here and I have some errands to run...'

He furrows his brow, reaching for the drawer where his phone is lying, on silent. 'Mary was supposed to pick her up an hour and a half ago.'

He unlocks his phone. No messages or calls from Mary, there is one message from Joyce:

**hi mr watson, is mrs watson coming by?**

And that was forty minutes ago.

'Yes, I know.' she sounds tight, but maintains a polite tone. 'I tried to contact her, but she's not answering. Do you think you could…?'

He massages his eyes with his fingers. There is still two hours before the clinic's closing time and he had his bike parked here. Mary had left to talk to the car insurance, which was around lunchtime so it really shouldn't take this long. But since someone had actually planted a bomb on their car a couple days ago, he is half afraid they had finally found their way to her. The other half is certain she's smarter than that. 'Yes, I'll see what I can do, talk to you in a minute.'

He puts the hold back in place and calls Mary on his mobile. It goes straight to voicemail. There is no point in fretting over that right now, so he calls Sherlock next.

'John?' 

'Could you fetch Rosie from her sitter and take her to Baker Street? I'll explain later.'

A beat of silence.

'Of course. Give me the address.'

-*-

The girl who opens the door has dyed red hair tied in a bun and premature dark circles under her eyes (although the redness of her nose and its unpeeled wing skin from constant blowing with a tissue suggests the dark circles are also a symptom from allergic rhinitis). She looks at him up and down. 'And you are…?'

'Sherlock Holmes. I thought John warned you I was coming for Rosie?' he refrains from saying anything else, like the fact that she had a date and was almost running late so he wasn't going to keep her. The last person John would want him to inadvertently annoy was his babysitter.

'I know, I was just checking. Safety and all.' she goes inside. He supposes she does have good intentions but weak execution, as anyone could pass for him if she just asked a name. He notices Rosie's bag and folded carriage are already propped up against the foyer wall, so he picks them up.

The girl comes back with Rosie, who is whining lightly. 'She's been fussy this afternoon.' she says, sniffing a bit. 'Didn't want to take a nap and coughed a bit. I think she's coming out with a cold.'

He purses his lips while lifting Rosie to his own arms. Surely she would have gotten some germs from here. 'I'll tell, John. Thank you, afternoon.' he turns around without waiting for a response, entering the cab he had told to wait by the sidewalk.

In the cab he watches her closely. She's still whining, and feels warm to the touch. He opens her mouth delicately, despite her protests, and there it is: some mucus running in the back of her throat. He taps the glass separating him from the driver to call his attention. 'Stop at the nearest pharmacy from Baker Street.'

'Ta, mate.'

He buys a digital thermometer and saline drops. At home, the thermometer already sterilized, he cleans the kitchen table and covers it with a duvet, putting Rosie on her stomach over it. 

'Sorry, Watson, this will be a bit uncomfortable.'

The inserts about an inch of the object in her rectum. Whines are full complaints now, and she pumps her tight fists on the table surface. 'Yes, that will be the Watson temper talking.' he addresses, focused on the small screen reading. The thermometer finally beeps, showing 37.8 °C. 'Not a fever but higher than it should, uhm?'.

He knows quite a bit about fevers, and tells her about it while he gives her a fresh bath in a plastic washbasin he put in the kitchen sink to avoid contamination. He hopes the warmth in her body drops this way. 'Once I mixed up lots of illicit narcotics you don't need to know about right now - and please never use them, Watson, or your dad will kill me - so the withdrawal happened to be the embodiment of hell.'

He takes her out, dries her carefully and puts her nappy and clean clothes, found inside her bag. 'I had a fever so high, I entered a delirium state. Mycroft didn't even notice at first, because he usually expects me to be a hysterical Victorian damsel or something equivalent, the pompous meddler. I hyper fixated on the patterns of diverse furniture in his apartment. It took quite a while for him to catch that I wasn't ignoring his remarks, I just really wasn't acknowledging anything happening around me.'

She coughs miserably at his account. 'Post-nasal drip is not any fun, I'm aware. Let's see your nose.'

He uses the saline drops in her (starting to congest) nose. She makes an angry noise and kicks about a bit. He takes the bottled breastmilk that came on the thermal bag with her stuff and deposits in the pan with hot water. When it warms enough, he directs to her mouth. She objects at first but soon seems to approve of warm milk, and drinks it hungrily.

'Last but not least, some fluids. I guess you'll be alright soon.'

He walks around the flat with her, stopping by the window to watch the street. Evening is approaching already. Rosie holds the bottle with her tiny hands, eyes closed and throat working on the milk. People outside start to leave work and commute home. Mrs. Hudson is suddenly visible out there, coming from the supermarket judging by the packages on her hands.

He smell-kisses her head. 'Hope your dad comes back home soon.'


	4. Human shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

Rosie is still moody, but more responsive. He reads a book he collected from her bag, although read is a strong word for the activity that consisted of her banging the pages while he added more pertinent information than the feebles one the book provided. He supposes the texture of baby animals, or so the book called, appeal more to her than scientific facts.

'While I understand the visual and tactile pleasingness of furry beings, the polar bear is a hypercarnivorous apex predator and I don't understand why would you find and animal the would easily eat humans if there's no dietary adequate food available _cute_.' 

Knuckles rap the door to the living room, interrupting his monologue. 'Woo-hoo! Oh, look who is here!'

Mrs. Hudson approaches all smiles, dropping a kiss on Rosie's forehead. 'If I knew she was here I would have come up as soon as I arrived.'

'Which was barely fifteen minutes ago.'

'Shush you, young man and give me this baby.'

Rosie clearly approves of this, as she bounces up and down and hangs strongly onto Mrs. Hudson's blouse. 'Oh Sherlock, a young boy on the street gave me this, I think it was one of your Irregulars.' she pulls out a folded piece of paper and he takes from her, reading hungrily.

'Mrs. Hudson!' he gets up and runs to his coat hanger. 'There are some saline drops in the kitchen, would you use them on Rosie before she sleeps? Can you keep her for the night? It's a matter of emergency.'

She tuts. 'Well, I can, but what if she's hungry?'

He stops mid movement, one arm still out of the Belstaff, considering. 'I'll arrange for someone to deliver formula as soon as possible.' It's hardly ideal a baby her age who technically breastfeeds, but it's the only way, as nobody sent extra bottled milk. 

Mrs. Hudson seems obviously skeptical, but shrugs. 'Ok, then. Please take care. We'll have a nice evening together, aren't we?' she turns to talk to Rosie in a baby speak.

'Don't wait up.' and he dashes to get a cab.

-*-

John parks his bike outside, where he still can see the burning stains on the ground. The house is completely dark. He enters carefully, dropping his keys in the bowl at the side table and flicking the lights on. There's nothing amiss in the living room, so he goes upstairs to their bedroom. The travel suitcases they keep in the wardrobe are untouched. Mary's coat is missing, but mostly all her things are still here.

He goes downstairs to the kitchen. He looks over the room for a moment and it's already turning to leave, when something calls his attention. He walks to the counter, where a phone, Mary's, lies over a piece of paper. 

**I'll come back as soon as there's no danger anymore. Check the fridge.**

He folds the paper and puts in his pocket, going to the fridge while turning the mobile on.

There are some fresh bottles of milk stored. She must have pumped before leaving. The phone screen lights up to a "choose your language" option, like it's a new phone. She also formatted it so information couldn't be retrieved, apparently. Great. He closes the fridge, also puts the phone in his pocket, and when he turns around, a man enters the kitchen.

They freeze, staring at each other. The man is wearing a black hat and dark clothes. John doesn't recognise his face, but he knows is the one who followed him. He has light brown eyes, and a burn scar that starts at the far right side of his face and goes all the way to his throat, at least the part of it that peakes over his collar. John's hands itch for his gun.

'Where is she?'

John knows no nonsense voice when he hears it. 'I don't know. She left. There's a note and everything in my pocket if you let me show you. Her phone is also here'

'Let's not. Keep your hands where I can see them.' 

'Or we could talk a bit.' they both turn at the sudden appearance of Sherlock, and oh John is so going to kill him, quickly coming inside from the kitchen window and standing in front of John, shielding him from the man. 'Brent Sullivan, isn't it?'

Brent pulls a gun and points at them. John was going to move from behind Sherlock, but the move makes him stop. 'How do you know that?' he questions angrily.

'The streets have ears.' John can't see him, but hears the smirk, knowing it is directed to himself. 'And they also told me Mary Watson left London hours ago, so there's no point to this. If you leave now I will even let you go.'

The sound of the gun being unlocked is loud in the cramped kitchen. 'Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? Heard about you too. Now, I really don't like to talk much, but if you know so many things, you can tell me where she's going and _I'll even let you go_' he spits venomously.

Sherlock shrugs. 'I don't know. My people know who is in London and who is not, but they can't go beyond that.'

Brent Sullivan doesn't smile as he doesn't seem the cartoonish type of villain. 'Then we'll find out, you and me, since you're so smart. Come here.'

They all blink at each other for a second. Brent yells 'COME RIGHT HERE!'.

Sherlock advances slowly. Brent looks over his shoulder at John, gun still up. 'And you put your hands in your head and come too.'

They follow his steps to the living room, where without glancing away from them, he opens the closet under the stairs. 'Mr. Watson, enter here if you may. I have a discussion to do with Holmes.' he says mockingly. John looks at Sherlock who minimally shakes his head. John holds a sigh and enters the closet, the door shutting brusquely at his back.


	5. Gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I FORGOT about yesterday's chapter, so sorry kasndknaska. So this is from 5th prompt, and later today I'll post the sixth prompt. Also, you guys can follow me on tumblr thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

The thing about the little closet under the stairs, full of dust because they use it as storage for things they barely remember they own, is that it doesn't lock. He and Mary had had a full discussion about it when they first moved, because some _important_ things that shouldn't be easily accessed were in the closet, and a lock should be provided as soon as Rosie started walking.

Of course, now that he is in there, he is aware of the possibility that Mary had taken it out with her. Granted, she had her own when the whole Magnussen situation arose, but he has no idea what she did with it, as he never saw it in the house. _He_ didn't know how to dispose of it to make his house safe, Mary however, apparently has no qualms about making herself the safer one, so he wouldn't be surprised if she had it hidden somewhere in the house.

So, first, he needs to check if it's still inside the baby monitor box on the top shelf. Issue: how to get there without announcing his intentions to Brent Sullivan, since he has nothing to aid him to reach the top shelf, situated a good meter from his head. Second, he needs to leave the closet and ambush the guy. Issue: he had his own gun pointed at Sherlock right now, the timing has to be precise so Brent doesn't panic shoot him. He also can't take too long, otherwise Brent has funny ideas on how to gather information from Sherlock.

He looks around the cramped space. There is a cardboard box tucked in the corner, full of old clothes he never got around to donating. It's too soft for him to climb on it. He stands on tiptoes to check the first shelf. Far behind all the clutter, almost hidden from view, stands a framed painting. 

The painting had been a gift from Harry. Deep down he knows her enough to know it had been a gag gift so she could see Mary's reaction, because it is ugly as hell. Yet, the thing has a wooden frame and is protected by glass. He positions the clothes box close to the wall, puts the painting over it and cautiously steps over it. It doesn't feel very reliable but it's enough for him to reach the baby monitor box with the tips of his fingers and pull it with him.

He pushes aside the bubble plastic and instruction manual, and _oh god_ he breathes in relief, his gun is still there, beautiful and dismounted. There are two bullets at the bottom of the box. He mounts the revolver as silent as he can, unlocks it, and plasts himself against the door, trying to hear what is going on.

-*-

The worst people one could have pointing a gun at your face are the amateurs. Brent Sullivan clearly doesn't know much about how to hold a weapon, being only motivated by anger, resentment and the macho need to prove himself better than a professional assassin woman. Very boring and dangerous combination, in Sherlock's opinion. The cherry on top is that he doesn't really have a plan, placing Sherlock in a chair on the living room.

'I have been watching the house since I found out her address. I never saw her leaving today, how is it that you know where she is?' he says waving the revolver around. Sherlock followed it with his eyes.

'Actually, I don't know where she is, as I told you before. As to how she left unnoticed, she's a professional assassin with international reputation, I'm sure she knows how to disappear in public.'

'Perhaps she recognised me, and purposefully ran away.' he wondered aloud.

Sherlock cleans his throat. 'To be honest I'm not sure if she even remembers you, but you did place a bomb in her car, that alone warrants someone to flee.'

'What do you mean that little _whore_ doesn't remember me?' he growls, gesturing the gun to accentuate his words. 'She ruined my life and my face!'

If Sherlock could choose a way to be shot and die, it would certainly would be in the middle of his forehead, where the effect is instantaneous. This idiot would end up shooting him sideways, through his cheekbone or somewhere equally dreadful, leaving him with some sort of paralysis and very much alive.

'My people saw her withdrawing money and taking a train.' he decides to change the topic. 'It's highly probable she changed trains and even identities to leave the country inconspicuously, as she has a history of that strategy.' he looks out of the window. It's very dark outside, and he can't discern any movement.

'She can't just leave. You're bluffing. She has a baby daughter here, and the pathetic husband.' Brent scoffs at him.

'You'd be surprised.' Sherlock murmurs.

He hears a car coming down the road, and a second one, but just because he's paying attention. The shadow of an owl passes quickly by the window, looking like a ghost. He looks back at Brent, who is fuming but evidently doesn't know what to do next.

'Well, I think you're lying. You know where she is, she would have told you.' he holds the gun more firmly, raising again at eye level. 'If you don't spill it out I'll have to take you with me.'

'What is it that she did to ruin your life?' he asks, trying to distract him. The cars he heard park outside. 'It surely has been years now.'

'Shut up, you poof. Come up here, let's go to my car.'

He stands slowly, trying not to look anywhere but the man's face. Outside the car doors close. On his left the handle of the closet door turns gently. Brent rushes to him impatiently, pushing his shoulder forward while the gun almost brushes his nose. 'Come _on_!'

John opens the closet door, his own gun steadily pointed to Brent's face, and right after the front door also opens, three uniformed men with pistols announce themselves. 'PUT THE GUN DOWN.'


	6. Dragged away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is today's chapter, right on time. Talk to me on tumblr: thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

Brent instinctively pushes Sherlock in front of him, aiming the gun wherever, as if he's indecisive. Sherlock can feel the hand holding his shoulder trembling, and he knows if the man was truly purposeful he'd point the gun at Sherlock himself. One more wannabe criminal tediously stupid.

He looks at John, holding himself at military stance, gun unwavering. John catches his eyes, and mouths 'Ok?', to which Sherlock lifts the corner of his mouth and rolls his eyes, making John scoff slightly, as if he's trying to take this seriously. Sherlock mouths back 'Not good?', and John shakes his head just once.

'Mr. Sullivan, this is MI6, and to our understanding you committed a terrorist act by implanting a bomb in Mary Watson's personal vehicle. If we call the police you will also respond for trespassing, attempted homicide and illegal gun ownership. Put your weapon on the floor and get away from the civilian.' one of the uniformed guys recites in monotone, while the other two move around the living room, covering more ground on the ambush.

'Terrorist? _Me_?' Brent yells hysterically, his voice rising a whole octave. 'That fucking Mary Watson should be going to prison! She's an assassin! Where is she, uhm? I'm not the only one who wants to know!'

'We are aware that A.G.R.A killed your father in a lock robbery and were responsible for your house burning. But there's no need to add more crimes for your case. Put the gun down, and we will call you a lawyer.'

'You've got to be kidding me.' he says and unconsciously gives a single step back, creating some space between him and Sherlock.

This is as good as an opportunity he will get. He ducks as far as he can, and two shots are heard. He sees Brent's gun falling close to him, so he snaps it away. John quickly comes forward and catches it, the three men storm to a point behind him, immobilising Brent.

'All clear, sir!' the one who had been speaking before says aloud. 

'Good job. Dr. Watson, be a gent and put your gun away, it's trouble enough pretending it doesn't exist.' Mycroft says from the doorway, surveilling the scene in front of him. Anthea trails not far behind, head bent in her phone.

'Ah, should have known.' John says, giving away his gun for one of the MI6 guys to collect it, while the other two drag Brent Sullivan away. 'But how did you know this was happening?'

'Sherlock texted me. While it was a sound idea, Sherlock, a bit more of advance would have been appreciated.' he says with a polite thin smile that unnerves both of them.

'Tell that to the next criminal who invades someone's house.' Sherlock answers sarcastically.

'Wait, _you_ texted _him_?' John stares from one brother to another, incredulous. 'You hate authorities.' 

Sherlock cleans his throat. 'While I do enjoy dealing with meliants, and hate bureaucracy at the same amount, Rosie is priority.'

John smiles at him, all soft at the edges, like there's no one else in the room. He smiles back, but can't bear to look at it much longer, so he directs his glance to the floor, trying to control the flutter in his stomach.

Mycroft inhales loudly, breaking the mood. 'For obvious reasons, we can't call the police unless this puts Mrs. Mary Watson on the spotlight. Our… agreement,' and he spells the word as if it's something nasty. '- I'll respect it. Do you want me to track her?'

John is already shaking his head. 'No. Let her do whatever she thinks it's best. But what the guy said is worrying me. That he's not the only one who wants to know.'

'Ah, yes, that. My people will look into it. Of course, if she knew, the information must be somewhere accessible. While I work into that, I suggest you three go to a safe location of my own recommendation.'

'I… think I'll accept it. Thank you. I appreciate it.'

Mycroft just bows his head an inch in acknowledgement, and leaves. Anthea moves forward. 'The car will take you both to Westminster. We already have an agent on Martha Hudson's flat.'

They give enough time for John to pack a bag for him and Rosie, while Sherlock finds a styrofoam box to stock the breast milk bottles in the fridge. They put everything in the boot of the car, and the anonymous suit-dressed driver takes off to central London.

'Why?'

John glances at Sherlock. The rapid passing street lights twinkle on his face, and his voice is a soft murmur. 'Why what?'

'Why not let Mycroft's minions track her?'

John ruminates the thought for a while. 'Well, if she runs away, I don't have any responsibility for her decisions. I promised protection if she stayed, but that was not enough for her.'

Sherlock inclines his head like his brain is doing heavy work. He looks confused enough for it to be true, John thinks. 'You're not sure you want her to come back.' he says suddenly, like it startles him.

John shrugs. 'You could say that.'

They arrive at Baker Street and while Sherlock goes upstairs to pack for himself, John stays at 221A to talk to Mrs. Hudson. There's another silent suit-dressed agent positioned at the door. John can see the outline of a pistol on the inside of his jacket. Mrs. Hudson tells him Rosie is already sleeping.

'Was a bit cranky, the poor lamb, but Sherlock took care of her so I think the cold won't develop much further.' she says over tea. 'Some of the brother's people were here earlier, and told me to go to my sister's for a while. What is going on, John? Where is Mary?'

'This is the question of the year, Mrs. H. She left, and supposedly she will come back. Right now some people are after her, so well just lay low and stand out of the way.'

She lowers her voice and gets close to him, as if telling a gossip. 'To be honest with you, I never liked her that much.'

He hears Sherlock stomping down the stairs through the ceiling. The madman probably tried to pack the whole flat, as he doesn't like to get separated from his stuff. How he survived two years with only the clothes on his body is a mystery to John. He smiles to himself. 'To be _very_ honest with you,' he repeats her statement, 'neither did I.'


	7. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on tumblr: thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENT: I won't be able to update until Friday 11th. Everything will get regular by then.

And that's how they ended up locked in a hotel room in Brighton. Granted, the room is huge. It has a large main bedroom with a queen sized bed and even a provided cot beside it, en suite equipped with a bloody jacuzzi and changing table for babies. Another adjacent smaller bedroom is connected to it by the balcony, and it has its own en suite, although the tub plus shower is quite ordinary. 

The living room is a two room space, divided between dinner table for six people on one side and a sofa accompanied by two fancy chairs in front of a Smart TV on the other side. It doesn't have access to the balcony, but large windows to outside do the trick.

The balcony has a breakfast table, and is situated right in front of the pier. They can watch the most beautiful sunrise and sunset from inside, and feel the sea wind if they are tired from inside and need fresh air, considering they can't really leave the room until further notice from Mycroft.

In sum, it's very cosy, but it doesn't contain stir-craziness from both Sherlock Holmes and Rosie Watson.

Sherlock spends two days taking turns between solving cases on his phone and continuing his toys experiment with Rosie, who seems to approve this endeavor. On the third day he snaps and starts calling Mycroft. After the eighth call, Mycroft stops answering. After the twentieth call, Sherlock's number is automatically directed at Anthea's office. 

'Yes, Grace, I don't know how long I will be away, sorry for that.' John ignores Sherlock now trying to hack into MI6 database and makes some calls of his own. 'My leave is already being renewed? Oh, that's great. No no, of course it was me, I just wanted to be sure the, uhm, documentation went through. Thank you.' he hangs up and takes a piece of paper out of Rosie's hand just one second before going into her mouth.

The breast milk has finished and she's taking formula now. She makes a face every time she starts drinking, but the hunger probably has a louder voice for her. The lack of updates also tells him that Mary hasn't attempted to come back to London.

On the sixth day, he notices Sherlock is not only playing with Rosie to get rid of the boredom of them both, he is testing her abilities. On the development milestones chart he has been keeping (_'The what now?' 'Every parent should monitor their children's advances to check if they have the cognitive and social capabilities expected for their age, honestly John._'), he highlighted how now that she is close to four months, she should be able to roll from tummy to back.

He spends hours with Rosie on the carpeted floor showing her how the movement is supposed to be done. She pushes up to her elbows and watches him very curiously. John refrains from saying he looks like teaching some tricks to a dog, because at least they are entertained.

On the eighth day Sherlock finds out they can ask the dessert trolley to be brought upstairs so he can choose what to eat. He neglects proper dinner picks a blueberry cheesecake, a lemon tart, an apfelstrudel and chocolate ice cream. John eats his smoked salmon with roasted potatoes and even a pretty colourful salad in accompaniment, watching Sherlock stuff himself into a sugar induced comatose. He actually manages to brush his teeth before passing out on the sofa. Since the thing is large and comfy enough, John lets him be.

The next day he convinces Sherlock to eat a tomato risotto with him, quite easily considering. He still has a toffee pudding after, and John joins him gleefully.

On the tenth day Sherlock is perusing the children's TV shows options. Of course, Rosie is still too young to pay attention to TV, but Sherlock claims it's research so he knows the more adequate material when the proper time arrives. He finds out about Peppa Pig, and to John's consternation, gets fascinated by the cartoon.

'The depiction of animal's lifestyle, especially pigs, is evidently completely equivocal,' he arguments, 'but the children's behaviour they are supposed to emulate is actually disturbing. Which means is more interesting, because children are capable of being quite... creepy.'

On the screen, a group of child animals go to the zoo. John blinks in confusion. Why is there a zoo in an animals city universe? 'Creepy is not a word I would have expected to hear you saying.' he replies.

'Interesting.' Sherlock says to the TV, and pulls out his phone. John peeks the screen: it's a google search of **how animals perceive other animals in cartoons**.

Rosie rolls to her back on the carpet.

On the twelfth day John caughts Sherlock trying to bribe the room's morning maid to give him one of the cigarettes he deduced she had in her pocket for the off time. He pushes Sherlock aside and tells her to spread the word that cigarettes or any other narcotics are strictly forbidden in their room. He makes himself very emphatic and unambiguous. When he checks on Sherlock he is smoking a blue biro.

On the thirteenth day a storm takes Brighton, with thunders and everything. Rosie is very afraid of the noise, so Sherlock takes her to the balcony and explains all the science behind precipitation, including why rainfall happens, all the temperatures water can reach before changing state, electricity discharge at the atmosphere and why the sky gets dark. It's a long and boring monologue, so she stops crying and sleeps half through it. John doesn't know if he never noticed or just didn't care, but in any way the takes a picture on his phone, and he is sure Sherlock didn't see it.

A fortnight after they arrived in Brighton they finally receive the call from Mycroft, who also unblocked Sherlock's phone number, telling them the situation is cleared. Mrs. Hudson would be in a train the morning after, and a car would pick them up just after lunch. Rosie has a bottle, the adults treat themselves to bolognese lasagna and garlic bread, and a single glass of wine each. 

She thankfully sleeps all the way back to London in her baby car seat. Nobody knows where Mary is. When they enter Westminster to drop Sherlock home, John holds his hand for a minute. At Baker Street, he squeezes back just the once.


	8. Stab wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back. I'll try to post the late chapters through the weekend so by Monday we are back on schedule.
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

The month after the Brighton exile, as Sherlock calls in his head, has been a bit slow on the crime side. Lestrade called him only once just to ask some advice on a potential murder of a gymnastics instructor case. Sherlock asked a few questions, had him send a couple pictures of the crime scene and the bathroom of the gym, and ruled out murder. Lestrade, despite what Sherlock loudly professes, is not that thick. He already suspected it had been entirely accidental and had just called Sherlock for confirmation. That had been almost two weeks ago.

Considering he emptied his inbox in the first two days in Brighton, work wasn't looking favourably to him. He has some plans to occupy him time for some weeks, but for that he needs money. So when the thirty-something lawyer Keona Douglas came by Baker Street with a real case, he accepted immediately.

Todd Fuller is a stalker, and his behaviour is text-book evolving to dangerous places. Keona had opened two incident reports against him, to no end. Only true desperation would make a lawyer go to him instead of trying the legal way, so he takes her very seriously from the start. 

Todd had started to show his hand through anonymous letters, proclaiming to admire her work as a public prosecutor. Keona had dismissed the letters at first, but their tone grew more and more alarming. The writer knew which cases she had been on, and talked about them, telling her how she looked, and what she ate at the intervals, and how late she arrived home. She showed the letters to the police for the first incident report, but they told her if the audiences were public, anyone could be watching, so they could do nothing about it.

About two months ago she went to a hair salon to cut her hair to neck length and braid then in cornrows. A day later an envelope with a lock from her hair appeared at her kitchen counter, accompanied by a note saying he preferred them long, so he would keep the rest of the locks. She freaked out, and tried a second incident report, and once again nothing came out of it. Certain she was being followed and afraid for her life, she checked into a hotel and asked for Sherlock's help.

She was right, she was being followed almost 24 to 7. Sherlock finds out by following her himself, with her agreement. After three days he is able to discern a white man in his early forties, if his appearance is not deceitful, always after her. He eats a sandwich while watching her fix her watch in a store on the other side of the road, and Sherlock drinks coffee while watching him. He sends Keona a message so she takes a little longer than necessary, so Sherlock can pickpocket the man. His ID shows: Todd Fuller, 46. He drops the wallet on the floor beside Todd, and leaves.

He warns her to stay away from home still. The thing with stalkers is, they almost always don't get in trouble because until a "serious" crime is committed, nothing can be done. So Sherlock needs to set a trap for him and keep Keona safe at the same time. His initial idea is trespassing. Pretend she's at home so he can record Todd entering the house and being generally creepy. Simple enough.

Keona gives him her flat's keys. Sherlock knows the man goes home at 6:30 pm and always comes back to stalk the house for a few hours at 10pm. He waits for him during the time up on the roof, setting up cameras all over the house.

On the first day he waits in vain, because nobody appears. He follows Keona to work, and Todd is there. Keona does what Sherlock told her to, which is to take a pre-accorded cab to a place at home's general direction, and then get another random cab back to a different hotel. Todd wouldn't see the move if he took the tube, and would be slow in getting a cab during rush hour, so to keep the pretence she had come back home. He can't know she's not in her original location now.

On the second day Todd comes by. He has a key to the flat (and Sherlock needs to ascertain how he obtained a copy). The hidden camera on the other building catches him already. Sherlock trails him through the app on his phone, connected to the cameras. Todd seems strangely purposeful, instead of looking around. In the kitchen, he stops in the middle of the room, and suddenly he looks directly to the camera in the open cupboard, making Sherlock startles back in his spot. Todd takes the camera and his hand is the last thing Sherlock sees before the image cuts off.

He needs to get out of there, but not before Todd leaves. He studies the neighbour's rooftop, perhaps he could make a run and jump over there? During his calculations the door to Keona's roof suddenly bangs open, Todd surges with a fillet knife and hops on Sherlock. The surprise is very effective, as Sherlock is unable to stop the knife from piercing deep his thigh.


	9. Shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

Todd quickly loses interest in him when he realises Sherlock is not there to compete for Keona, whatever that means for a creep like him. He has a bike chain lock in his backpack, and uses it to shackle Sherlock to the feet of the bathroom's cabinet under the sink, after bringing him down from the rooftop with the knife secured against his throat. He closes the door and leaves Sherlock bleeding on the floor.

He vaguely remembers dropping the phone during the brief fight. Todd had actually aimed the long knife at his abdomen, but instinct and quick thinking made him pull his legs up to protect the critical area, resulting in his outside left thigh being the one hit. The knife had penetrated almost to the handle, but Sherlock thinks it luckily missed main blood vessels, by the amount of blood that came out of it. When alone in the bathroom he uses all the energy left to raise his leg and prop it on the door, and the blood stream stops after a few minutes.

He can't see much. Todd has turned off all the lights again, and Sherlock honestly doesn't know if he's still in the flat. He's still a bit dizzy from the blood loss, so his normally highly accurate audition isn't reliable. He's grateful to have his coat on while lying on the cold floor.

Hours pass by. He's thirsty, his back hurts from the hard floor, and the wound burns. His arms being locked over his head start to feel anesthetized. He had tried several times to dislodge the chain, but it is locked tight, and he can't feel his fingers anymore, so he is obliged to give up. The bathroom has a small window, but it's closed. He dozes off and when he wakes up he can see a faint brace of sunlight through it. 

'H-ah!' he tries to shout, but his dry throat clogs. He coughs and tries again. 'HELP!'

It doesn't sound very loud to his own ears, nevermind outside. His neck is very stiff, and the pain now irradiates from the wound to his leg. 

In Serbia, he had spent days chained up to the walls. He was always standing, and if he tried to drop down his arms would be teared off. They beat him during interrogation sessions, but thankfully nothing more creative than that. Although he supposes it was a very good strategy to never let him sleep. Everytime he closed his eyes for more than a minute, they would throw a bucket of water over him. Not being let sleep or lie down for days had felt honestly worse than the beating. Oh the irony that now he's lying down, and all he wants is being able to get up and have a stretch.

He thinks about Rosie. They've been working on her crawling, and Sherlock thinks she's almost there. Soon she will be able to be introduced to proper food, instead of bottles and bottles of formula. He has lots of plans for her, and for John. 

He feels conflicted thinking about John right now, but he is sure that if John had been with him, this wouldn't have happened. But John has a job he needs to keep (for now), and a daughter he can't just leave anywhere. But the case was supposed to be very simple, and he needs the money.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but it's been morning for a long time now. The daylight allows him to take a look at his thigh. The dark trousers conceal most of the damage, but the light pus is such a contrast that it's impossible not to notice. Just what he needed, an infection. The longer he stays, the harder it is to change positions, and everytime he moves he feels the wound more tender.

He keeps dozing off and only realises after he opens his eyes and the light through the window is different. He feels very weak, and doesn't manage to yell for help again. His skin is clammy and he shivers from time to time. It starts to get dark again, and he thinks that after being harassed by a criminal mastermind, jumped off a building, being tortured in multiple occasions all around the world, being shot by his best friend's wife, almost overdosing in middle flight, and suffered an attempted drowning by the wife's old colleague, this is a very stupid way to go.


	10. Unconscious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

'To be honest, I'm not entirely sure he came back home yesterday. He has been arriving late for some days now because of the case.' Mrs. Hudson tells him in a worried voice. He passes Rosie to his other arm to relieve the left one.

'What case? He didn't tell me anything.' John feels anxious already. He had sent messages the whole day and even called Sherlock, but there was only silence on the other hand. He had decided on a whim to pay him a visit after picking up Rosie from the sitter, only to find 221B empty.

'A very nice lady came to him last week.' she looks for the tea box in a cupboard of Sherlock's kitchen, finds a jar containing a single hand in formaldehyde and closes the cupboard. 'She was looking a bit desperate. Afraid I didn't catch her name.'

After scrutinising the carpet for a moment, he decides it looks safe enough to put Rosie on it with her toy giraffe. She bounces a bit and mouths the giraffe. He leaves her to it and goes to Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock always cleans his google search, so he finds nothing. The website's inbox has some new messages, but nothing he seemed to have taken up in the past week.

'Hello?'

He looks up. A well-dressed woman is standing in the doorway, clutching a folder tight against her chest. He glances subtly at his watch, it's 7pm already.

'Hi, if you're a client, Sherlock is not home right now. Perhaps send him an email-'

'I think something bad happened to him.' she interrupts him sounding determined. He inhales sharply. Mrs. Hudson stage whispers _'It's her!'_ to him. 'I'm Keona Douglas. He was looking into my case. He was going to set a trap on my stalker in my house yesterday, but haven't been in contact ever since.'

'Right. Mrs. Hudson, would you-'

'Go on, I'll stay with her.' she rushes him. 'Take that silly man out of trouble.'

He is going to do just that.

-*-

He calls Greg, who gathers a kidnapping team to go investigate Keona's address. Not strictly legal procedure, but he knows better when to call favours from the Met after Sherlock helps him so much. Keona also gives him the name of her stalker, discovered by Sherlock himself. Greg puts someone to look into the archives.

He is told to wait for a panda car, for Keona's security and also so he doesn't warn Todd Fuller off. They find his picture on the archives, he has one physical altercation with a police officer and two sexual assault incidents on his history. One of the victims was a minor at the time. A car goes to his registered address, and another to Keona's house, with John in tow. He hears Greg's voice on the radio saying a team was checking the today's CCTV footage close to both locations and also the hotels where Keona had stayed in.

John is made to wait in the car with a cop while a sergeant and her team enter the flat. He keeps bouncing in his seat, trying to keep his nails out of his mouth. Suddenly the radio announces: _'The flat is clean. Holmes is unconscious in the bathroom. We may need an ambulance.'_.

He hops from the car without waiting for approval from the cop. The team is collecting evidence through the whole house. 'Bathroom?' he asks a guy with a ziploc bag in his hand full of hair. They guy gestures to a corridor, and John follows. Two cops try to impede him. 'I'm a doctor, let me analyse his condition.' he replies in a voice that invites no questions.

There's dried blood on the floor, and something smells foul. Sherlock is awkwardly locked up on the floor. He releases his hands with pliers someone passes to him, they look a roughed up and a purpleish. Head and pupils checked over, he doesn't seem to have a concussion, but he is very hot to the touch. He finds the source of both blood and odour: a very infected wound on his thigh. There's also urine under him, making his trousers humid.

'I'm here.' he murmurs, massaging the long hands to increase the blood flow. 'Everything will be ok.'


	11. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

Sherlock sits down on the sofa adjacent to its arm, ostensibly to watch TV. 

'I know what you're doing, Sherlock.' John warns cheerfully, holding a spoonful of apple and banana puree to Rosie. 'Stop scratching the stiches.'

He moans to the ceiling. 'But I'm not using my nails!'. He drops to his back on the sofa, to make his point more dramatically. 'I'll just make a bit of pressure.'

'Just a few more days and they can take them off. You'll scratch all you want.' Rosie knocks her hand down with a resounding _'ASAH!_, and John saves the lunch plate at the last second, but not before some of it flies to his (and her) face. 

Sherlock jumps from his seat and grabs the clipboard sitting on his desk. 'She seems very positive to the fruits experiment.'

'EH!' she replies, and then eats more puree.

John scrapes off the last spoonful, and waits for her to finish the previous one. 'Yes, thankfully. I think I'll try carrots tomorrow.'

'Excellent.' he murmurs distractedly, checking off some bullet points from his spreadsheet. John peeks over, and there's also a rating system for a list of foods for each month until the one year old mark.

Rosie eats the rest of her lunch happily. 'Did you take your antibiotics today?' he gets up to put the plate on the sink and lets Sherlock clean her. 

'By the clock.' is the bored response. And then with more excitement. 'Her syllables are sounding more refined. I bet she'll be speaking her first words within a month.

'And then she'll go to Cambridge.'

Sherlock just visibly rolls his eyes at him. He set up lots of newspapers so Rosie can play with ink, so John doesn't bother changing her stained clothes after lunch. He sits down on his chair to watch them both play with painting. Rosie has yellow ink on one hand and orange on the other, and she shows herself quite adept in the painting with hands business. Sherlock explains to her the colour spectrum, and how some of the categorised colours don't actually exist. Rosie high fives him in the face with the orange hand for his trouble.

He needs to take a breath three times before managing to speak. 'I saw the renovation's folder in your laptop.'

While Sherlock was in hospital, the police had found Todd Fuller nearby, going to the crime scene to see if Keona Douglas had come back home. They recovered all the footage on the app on Sherlock's phone, retrieved from the rooftop, and several other proves on how dangerous Fuller was to her and the general society. She had sent an email thanking him profusely and asking for Sherlock's bank details, so she could make a deposit.

John opened Sherlock's laptop to do that. And right when he was closing the browser, a new email arrived. It was a reply from an architect with a budget proposal. The original email from Sherlock had a file of archives attached, all related to renovation plans at 221B. Those plans included reorganising the space so he and Rosie could move in. John hadn't had a chance to bring it up yet.

Sherlock avoids his eyes. 'It's just some ideas.' he mumbles while putting a purple hand over Rosie's yellow ones on the poster board over the coffee table.

John inclines his head. 'You had a list of potential jobs I could take in central London. And a nursery for Rosie.' he tries not to use a revealing tone, but his heart is fluttering madly.

'I wanted to give you options.' Sherlock shrugs. 'It's more convenient up here and it's not like you love the suburbs. Mrs. Hudson approved the solution.' he cleans his throat. 'And I like you two here.' and looks up with his kicked puppy face John doesn't tell him about because it's too adorable and he would stop doing it.

John presses his lips, concealing his expression. 'Ask me properly.'

Sherlock takes a deep breath. 'Do you want to move in with Rosie?'.

He beams at Sherlock. 'When do the renovations start?'.


	12. Don't move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oopsie
> 
> not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

It will take at least six weeks for the project to be finished, and this is only after they can finally begin the service. It turns out Sherlock had consulted a number of architects before reaching a final proposal with efficient alterations within his budget. The plumbing that supplies the bathroom at 221B for some reason cruises over 221C's ceiling, being the culprit for the constant mould. So the pipes are going to be redirected.

The separate corridors that lead to the kitchen and the living room are going to disappear, leaving just one door and creating an inside connection to the first floor, where John's old room was. There's enough space between the walls to expand the first floor in a bigger bedroom and create another smaller bathroom, with a simple showerhead and no tube. 

The stairs to the floor were going to be redirected and remodeled into a spiral staircase to give space for another spiral staircase going downstairs, to 221C, which was going to be converted into several smaller rooms: a guests bedroom, a lab for Sherlock, a storage room and a reception office for clients, equipped with a lavatory. The front door of 221C would lead to the office, and a private corridor that only someone with a key could access would take them to the rest of the flat. The staircase gets to a foyer in front of all the rooms, that would share the bathroom in the foyer. The idea was to separate the Work from their day-to-day life, specially for Rosie's safety.

Originally, the project of the first floor previewed a big room for John with a smaller adjacent room for Rosie, connected by a door. John had suggested the adjacent room became the bathroom and the room would be only Rosie's.

'Where will you sleep then?'

'I can make do downstairs.' he had answered boldly, admiring the redness that had tinted Sherlock's face, who only nodded in response.

John is contributing to the renovations with his own funds. He is involved after all, even if he can't pay the proper half share. Sherlock is taking more private cases to supply for this, and the deposit from Keona Douglas had been generous. Two clients from upper class, with cases that barely ranked 4, also had paid beautifully. Sherlock is sure Mycroft had sent them as a way to help, and John agrees and is grateful for that.

He feels excited and anxious for everything to be done already. The architect and responsible engineer had set a date two weeks from now, so they could prepare everything they needed. Rosie had mashed potatoes and meat puree earlier at dinner in Baker Street, but she still takes a bottle of formula before sleep. He makes her burp, and puts her in her cot. She is not a difficult sleeper anymore, and he is very glad for that. During the day they can be away from the house, and at night he just wants to settle and pretend he's sleeping somewhere else.

If before he felt uncomfortable being in Mary's house, now he feels oppressed. All her stuff is still here, since he doesn't want to deal with it, and doesn't want to think about it. 

Today has been a good day, though. He had given an advance notice for the clinic, and has contacted the jobs Sherlock listed for him. He is going to have two interviews next week. Also, Rosie has said her first word today.

'This looks a bit disgusting.' Sherlock has said, sneaking behind him.

'She doesn't have any teeth, Sherlock. All the food needs to be mashed.'

Sherlock wrote something on his spreadsheet. 

'So, how the meat ranked in your system?'

'Well, you tell me Watson. Do you like your meat puree?'

'WASON!'

They had blinked at her, who had more puree all over her face than in her mouth and looked very content about it. 'Did she say…?' John had started asking, but Sherlock was already running to the baby's development book, writing down "Watson".

'I told she knew her way on syllables.'

He smiles to himself at the memory, and lies down on the bed, turning off the bedside lamp. He is still sitting down when the living room door opens and closes.

He holds his breath. Mycroft had promised London was clear for them. Surely it wouldn't be related to a case? They had nothing dangerous since Todd Fuller. And MI6 hadn't given his gun back.

He looks around the room. There's a broom propped on the wall, where he cleaned an accidentally broken glass cup earlier this evening. He gets up smoothly, gathers the broom, and moves to the corridor. He can see the living room lights are on. The closet under the stairs door is open, hiding someone. He aims the broom high.

'Don't move.'

The sound of stirring stops. 'Hello, John.'

Oh god, no.

Mary pokes her head from behind the door, smiling. 'I'm back.'


	13. Adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back on track! One chapter per day until October 31st, I hope.
> 
> not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

It was never going to work, for starters. John has been in denial about this since the feeling first arose, when Mary admitted not liking the moustache. The awareness of this feeling has been buried deep inside him, showing its ugly head from time to time. The first time Mary left, to pursue Ajay, John felt so relieved that he was right she would run, that she would refuse help from Sherlock, that she would leave Rosie behind. 

The relief quickly dissolved into guilty, because he _was not supposed to do things like this_. Everything about his marriage went forward because of a sense of duty, a necessity of showing the world he could do normal by proposing to his (not long term at all) girlfriend. That he was able to get over Sherlock Holmes and constitute a family that didn't include dead people.

It was disconcerting when this need became bitterness, but he supposes his choices weren't the best to deal with the situation. 

When Mary left the second time, he accepted that this was _never_ going to work, and allowed himself to hate her a bit for letting him go this far. He made bad choices, but so did her, and to be honest, hers were far worse.

And then, like nothing happened in over three months she was away, she's in the house again. John is so perplexed he doesn't have a reaction at first. She just walks past him to the kitchen, and John follows gingerly. She takes a glass of water from the tap and gives a once over inside the fridge. 

'Brent Sullivan was caught they day you left.' he recites in monotone. She just hums, sounding uninterested. 'Did you know?'

'I was aware, eventually.'

He nods, pursing his lips. 'And why not come back?'

She looks at him like he's an idiot. He realises she standardly looks at him like that. 'I had to guarantee my safety. No use in being dead, uhn?' she smiles all teeth and John wants to hit her so badly. 'I told you I would come back, and I did.'

'Marvelous.' he replies between gritted teeth. 'How did you wean?'

'Cabergoline.'

'Risky.'

She just shrugs and goes upstairs, John in tow. She takes some clean clothes from the drawer and heads to the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. John notices she doesn't have luggage with her, and he doesn't remember the clothes she is wearing. The toilet flushes and the shower starts. He stands close to the door. 'Anything else?' he asks over the noise.

'What?'

'Anything else you want to ask?' he insists.

'Is there something else? I'm very tired.'

He counts from 1 to 10. 'Nothing. Nevermind.' he murmurs to himself, pockets his phone sitting on the nightstand, gets a pillow, a duvet, and the baby's monitor, and leaves closing the door quietly.

-*-

Mary can't know about his plans of moving back to Baker Street. He sends Sherlock a message before going to sleep to warn about her arrival. In the morning, he starts to dread the moment Mary and Rosie interact. He decides not to change his routine, and just pretend she's not here at all.

So he gives Rosie the formula bottle at breakfast, and doesn't wake up Mary. He makes toast and eggs and tea for himself only, ignoring the Look she gives when entering the kitchen. He finishes and goes to entertain Rosie without greeting her. He plays with his daughter in her room with the door closed. He calls her Watson, because that's how Sherlock calls her, and she repeats _Wason, Wason, Wason_ to him. He manages to record a video and send to Sherlock (and tells him to show to Mrs. Hudson), and Molly, and Greg, and even Mycroft.

A bit later he prepares mashed avocado with peanuts, she eats happily and takes her morning nap right after. Knowing she will only wake up by lunchtime, he brings his laptop to her room (Mary is downstairs watching TV apparently) to pass the time until he has to take a shower to leave for work. He confirms with Joyce that Rosie will be with her in the afternoon.

Mary doesn't show up at them once the whole morning. He gets ready, reheats the leftover mashed potatoes with meat from yesterday, and puts the cold sandwich and salad he had prepared last night in a brown bag. Just as he is leaving the kitchen, Mary appears in the doorway. 'She woke up. She didn't seem happy in the cot so I put her on the carpet.'

'Ok. I'm just going upstairs with her lunch.'

She crosses her arms over her chest, looks over the kitchen table and oven. 'Didn't know she was already eating food.'

'Six months already. Time flies.' he answers. If she wants lunch she better cook herself. He puts the brown bag on the table beside the front door and goes upstairs with the plate of potatoes.

When he reaches the final steps of the staircase, Rosie is already there, a second from crawling down. '_Oh jesus_' he takes a hold of her pulling her up. It takes some moments to realise he managed to not drop both baby and lunch plate.

'What happened?' Mary's voice comes from downstairs. His adrenaline is high as a kite. 

'She almost went down the stairs!' he replies furiously, going downstairs again, Rosie secured in his arms. 'How did she get there?'

Mary seems thoughtful for a moment. 'Oh, sorry, I forgot to close the door of her bedroom. Still haven't processed she is crawling already'

'Well, you better start.' he barks, going upstairs again. Rosie picks up his mood and starts to whine. She fusses during the whole lunch, barely eats, and John is a minute from snapping. He gives up her potatoes, change her clothes, takes his brown bag and Rosie's bag and leaves with her. .

Mary is still watching TV when he closes the front door. A rerun of Strictly Come Dancing is on.


	14. Tear-stained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any wrong grammar please let me know.

Everyone expects "Dada" or "Papa" to be one of Rosie's first words, but John is not much the type to call himself in the third person when talking to her. Of course, she can't repeat what she doesn't hear much. One thing he does say a lot around her is Sherlock's name. The syllables are somewhat complex, he concedes, when she finallys blurts out 'SHOCK!' when calling him.

'Is that me?' Sherlock frowns at her.

'Of course it's you, you berk. You left with her giraffe.'

'Oh.' a pause. 'Will she scream out every word?'

'I think it's the novelty of voicing thoughts. It'll pass.'

After "Shock" comes "jaffe" for her toy, and "epow", and "nana" for Mrs. Hudson and "jol" for Joyce and "dog" which is an easy one and eventually "dada" because Joyce keeps repeating to her that Dada is coming soon to get her.

He creates a routine of going everyday to have dinner at Baker Street after work to avoid being at the house, occupied by its real owner for weeks now. The renovations have started, and the flat is a mess. During the day the noise is almost unbearable, so Sherlock has taken to have long walks to run away from it. Today the evening is very pleasant, and Joyce had told him Rosie hasn't been in a good mood, so John suggests they meet at Regent's park to take the edge off her.

Sherlock brings a large picnic towel to cover the ground so Rosie can crawl over it. John had no idea he even owned such a thing. But then, Sherlock also used to own a clown costume that he actually wore on a case. John has to remember to tell this story to her when she's older. They both sit down on the ground and Rosie gravitates between them. She lets out some whines from time to time, and then seems to forget it. 

'What do I do when 221 is finished?' he asks suddenly, before he overthinks and gets too afraid to open his mouth.

Sherlock plays with a lint on the towel, looking down. 'I don't know.' the reply is very quiet.

They stay as long as they can before going to the flat. The workers have already finished for the day, but the smell of sawn wood and dust permeates the air. At the foot of the stairs he notices Sherlock giving a pause to sniff the air by the doorway. 'Ah.' 

'What?'

'Upstairs.'

Sitting at John's usual chair is Mary, who smiles her disarming way and gets up at the sight of them. 'Sherlock! Long time no see.' 

They exchange greeting kisses, like they used to do before. She turns to John, who has Rosie in her baby carrier. 'And my little girl, I barely see you too nowadays. Come here.' 

Rosie goes to her without much fuss, but she does look at both her father and godfather abruptly, like she's checking they are still there. She appears a bit wary in John's opinion, so he smiles at her, even if he feels uncomfortable. Mary hasn't really been present for most of her short life anyway.

'So, Mary.' Sherlock starts diplomatically, holding his hands behind his back and nudging John to move with his shoulder. He decides to make tea. 'What brings you here?'

'Well, my family spends a lot of time here. I suppose John never got rid of the habit.' she keeps smiling, and John tries so hard but can't see past her careful kind Mary Morstan facade. She has been building it for years, so it makes sense. 'And you, Sherlock? Decided to expand the flat? I see some work is being done.'

He looks at the blocked door for the corridor upstairs, where the dust is thicker, nodding to himself. 'Yes, I thought it was time to have a proper lab for myself. Mrs. Hudson needed to fix the mould problem in 221C. Everything just built up, to be honest.'

'Ah!' she affirms like she sympathises. Rosie moans suddenly. Mary looks at her like she doesn't know what to do.

'Here.' John arrives back at the living room carrying a tray with tea and mashed vegetables for Rosie. 'I think she's hungry.'

It's the most awkward thing he's seen, Mary trying to feed the child. Rosie tries to evade the spoon, but ultimately accepts it, only to break into tears right after, spitting the food. Mary looks very alarmed. 'I didn't do anything, why are you crying?'.

'Isn't it too hot? Did you test before giving to her?'

'It's no more than warm, John, I know how to check the temperature of food.'

Rosie just sobs louder, and yells 'SHOCK!'

Sherlock gets her up, already investigating the case. He tastes the food, nothing wrong. Both parents observe him from the sofa. He then puts his finger on her lip, pushing it down slightly to look inside her mouth. 'Aha. Apparently she has started teething.'

John sighs relieved. Teething he can deal with. Mary cleans some invisible dirt from her thighs and stands. 'Look, I also came to say that I need to leave again.'

'What?' John also stands, tries to hear her over Rosie's wailing. 'What happened?'

'A guy Alex owned money back then found out about me. He sent me an email, asking for me to cover the debt, now that Alex's dead. So I'll just go to Wales and deal with this. It shouldn't take long.'

'Really? Deal with him, that's what you do now? I thought you had stopped dealing with people after Magnussen.'

'If I had _dealt_ with that pig of a man my way, much shit wouldn't have happened.'

'I'm really sorry Sherlock stopped you murdering someone!'

'And then he went and did that himself, in the stupidest way possible.'

'You would know all about efficiently murdering someone.'

'As would you.' she smiles sharply, no facade on now. John just swallows, tightening his fists. 'Very good, very bad. I'm going. And don't worry, I'll come back.'

She leaves without a back glance. John suddenly notices the silence. Sherlock is around the kitchen door, maintaining a distance from the discussion. Rosie has her mouth attached to his chin, chewing it happily. Her cheeks are still tear-stained. His throat feels thick at the sight of them.

_Don't worry, I'll come back._

That's exactly what worries him.


	15. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. I was going to explain myself but then, I realise, I don't really have to so there it is. I never abandoned it. One thing tho, is I'm not forcing myself to write more per chapter, I'll just put the idea I have for the tag.
> 
> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. If there's any grammar error, please tell me.

Almost a year as a father hasn't prepared John for the advent of Rosie standing up holding onto the sofa of 221B's living room. The thing with a small child having a lot of of mobility is that they don't really know how to classify what is dangerous, so while he's happy she's growing up healthily, now he can't leave her on her own on the carpet for even a minute.

But some things are inevitable, and one day she missteps and lands her knee on a hard plastic block.

'It's fine, it's fine, you see? It's already over' John tries to console her, palming her back up and down while she cries. He checks her knee, the block didn't wound, but the outline of its shape is printed into the red skin. He massages it to increase the blood flow back. 'It's not so bad, you'll be right as rain in a few minutes.'

She looks at the damage site with him, tears still running. She traces the temporary scar with her small fingers. 'Ow.'

'Yeah, it hurts, doesn't it? But we all get hurt sometimes, it's just fine, isn't it?' they stare at each other, she seems very dubious for a nine months old baby. 'Sherlock gets hurt a lot, the child he is.'

The man in question grunts from the kitchen. He is putting his lab equipment in boxes to take downstairs to his recently finished new lab room. Both spiral staircases going up and down are the last things to be added, and by the next week (and after a good cleaning), the flat would be ready.

'Shock?' she asks, recognising the name John had said, and looking for him

Sherlock comes to the living room and crouches in front of Rosie. 'I do get hurt a lot. See this?' he shows his fingers to her, some of them have patches of discoloured skin. 'Acid burns. That's why you should always have gloves when working with chemicals.'

'Many years from now.' John says cheerfully.

Sherlock just shrugs. Then he rolls up his left sleeve, revealing telltale pinpoint scars. 'Those are from where I was a bit stupid.'

John swallows. Rosie seems very interested, and traces Sherlock's scars lightly before pinching his arm. Sherlock grimaces when she pulls off an arm hair and gently extracts her hand, putting it over the side of his leg, where he was stabbed by the creepy stalker. Because of the infection, the healing process was a bit messy, leaving a hypertrophic scar that could be felt through thin clothes such as his pyjama bottoms. 'This was a bad man's job. He's in jail now.'

'Sherlock.'

'Sorry.' he looks up at John, taking in his expression. 'Sorry. I'm not going to show the other ones.'

The other ones. The one Mary put there. The ones from his time away whose existence John is barely aware.

Rosie pats Sherlock's leg as hard as she can. He picks up her music box on the coffee table and she takes it eagerly, and John sits her on the sofa so she can play with it. Sherlock seems a bit embarrassed, which is not on. He misunderstood John. 'You can show me, later.' he says at once before he chickens out.

Sherlock looks surprised, but nods and smiles softly.


	16. Pinned down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any grammar error please let me know.

John is pretty sure the dust from the finalised work on the flat had been broomed off. Still, he feels the sand when he walks. And it keeps growing in volume. He gets another broom, trying to put it away, but the sand just doesn't move, just as his frustration builds up.

He looks around. Everything on his left is a bit of a blur. The window of the living room is there, but he can't see anything outside. Mary is sitting on the sofa, a gun in her hand. She smiles sweetly at him, just like their wedding day. When did that happen again?

'Three months ago.' she supplies, cocking the gun and putting her finger through the trigger.

He frowns. 'But where's Rosie?'

Mary shrugs, the sides of her mouth pulling down for a moment to match her shoulders. 'I haven't seen her in three months.'

His own mouth produces sound, but he is not opening his sealed lips. He sees Mary getting up, gun up in the air, but he can't open his eyes. 'You were supposed to come back.'

'Did you want to?'

The sand is up to his ankles now. The air is very dry, and sweat pools under his nape. He can't open his eyes. 'Stop that.'

She comes forward. 'Are you afraid? You coward.'

John?

Sherlock is grooming his hair in front of where allegedly there's a mirror. 'Go away!' he roars. It reverberates and makes the flat shake. Sherlock is not looking at them, threading his fingers through his curls, but Mary stares right after, he sees it coming, she points the gun at him and pulls the trigger, the shot is loud at his ears but he tackles her down and he can't open his eyes-

'John, my shoulder will dislocate.'

He knows he woke up before his eyes open. He still feels frozen in place, and when he finally unglue his eyelids the room is dark. Sherlock's room, and bed. Where he came to sleep even if his stuff is still at Mary's house because Rosie fell asleep after they spent the Sunday cleaning and Sherlock had said it wouldn't be a problem.

'John, please get off me.' 

He blinks again. Sherlock is pinned down to the bed, while John pulls his arm in a dangerous position to his back. The bony shoulder looks on the verge of dislocating. He jumps back in a startle. Sherlock is still for a moment, but John does hear the sigh of relief. He watches him turn on his side and massage the shoulder with his other hand. John can only see his back, knowing the inside-out t-shirt hides a myriad of scars that he only was able to see recently.

'Breathe in and out. It's ok.' Sherlock peeks at him, sounding too bloody calm.

'I'm sorry.' his voice breaks at the end. Both pretend not to notice.

Sherlock sits up, rolling his shoulders back and forth. 'PTSD nightmare. It's really fine. I just didn't block you because I was fast asleep myself.'

John just shakes his head. Sherlock grasps his nape, and his hand feels warm. 'Don't freak out. It's ok now.'

'I could have seriously hurt you.' he finally manages to blurt out. 

Sherlock squeezes his nape, looking right into his eyes. 'You're not used to the room. It's normal. You'll get used to it, just like you got used to sleep with Mary.'

He barks a wet laugh. 'I never slept peacefully beside her, to be honest.'

Sherlock smiles at him in a way that makes John want to touch his face. 'Well, we have at least two years of sleep to catch up then. Lay back down.'

They lie on their sides, watching each other. John opens his mouth and closes again. Sherlock frowns. 'What?'

He swallows. 'Do you mind turning around?'

The response is one eyebrow raised and the requested move. John breathes for a moment and gets closed, resting his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades and holding onto his hip. He doesn't puts his arm around him because he doesn't want Sherlock to feel trapped. But his way he can feel Sherlock's chest gently raising with his breath, and he can hear his muffled heartbeat.

Sherlock falls asleep before him, but he does eventually succumb again.


	17. Stay with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone!

For Rosie's one year birthday Sherlock decides to bake a cake. John encourages him and even suggests he chooses a low-sugar version so she can actually eat it. Sherlock has already charted all her favourite tastes up to the point, so John guarantees him it will be a blast. But the moment he leaves to buy supplies, John runs to Mrs. Hudson and begs her to supervise the ordeal, while being _inconspicuous_.

The bell for 221C, Sherlock's new reception office for clients, is turned off for the day, and John is honestly flattered that he made the effort to entertain Rosie for the whole day. Mrs. Hudson intercepts him by the door when he arrives from the shops, and _Oh Sherlock, I was going to bake one myself let's do together!_, and John bites his smile. 

Rosie plays with her gifts in the living room while her godparents argue about correct proportions of flour and vanilla in the first-time-in-years-appropriate-to-cook kitchen. After the cake is in the oven, and the only thing he can do is wait, Sherlock comes to sit on the carpet with her, and shows how to do chemical elements with modeling clay.

The radio is on, and they are playing a special selection of 80's songs right now. The current song that reminds John of his teenage years.

_Hold me now_   
_Stay with me_

He looks over at his family, and thinks about the papers he collected with his lawyer, hidden in John's desk drawer at his new work closer to Westminster. He had a lot of things to talk about with the lawyer. What to do with the empty house in the suburbs, that he can't sell because it's on Mary's name, and while she gave no sign of life in six months, she's not officially dead. Can he divorce someone who is not here to sign under? What are the procedures of adoption by one parent?

Those things are still complicated and can take months or even years, so he doesn't tell Sherlock about it yet. He has to keep himself in check, because everytime he thinks about it, his belly contracts in itself and he's afraid Sherlock will notice.

Sherlock of course promptly forgets about the cake, but Mrs. Hudson saves it from burning. When it's cooled enough, and subtly frosted, they sing happy birthday to Rosie (even Sherlock), while she claps her hands, full smile with a handful of teeth, clearly loving every minute of attention.

_let loving start_

At night when she finally gives up being awake, Sherlock puts her in her cot upstairs, and joins him in the living room, where John is finishing cleaning the child detritus. Sherlock leans against him, kissing his temple. They will probably fight over watching a documentary or an action movie, end up choosing none and playing a card game and also fight over how Sherlock never follows the rules, then take turns in the shower and go to bed together.

Everything is like it should be.


	18. Muffled scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been to tumblr much these past weeks, but you can talk to me over there, I'm thanks-mike-stamford.
> 
> UPDATE: as I said on tumblr, I will travel for the next 10 days without a computer, so there will be no updates during this time. Thanks for reading!

Which means, of course, that things can't stay like that.

A month later takes Sherlock, Rosie and Mrs. Hudson to a flower show fair in central London, to the insistence of the later. Sherlock argues that she doesn't have a garden or any open space appropriate to the cultivation of overpriced flowers and her window sills are too narrow even for small vases, so going there it's a waste of time for both them and the traders. She just shushes him.

'Some plants have indoor preferences, you thing. And Rosie would appreciate going out for a stroll.'

While it's true Mrs. Hudson is having a good time, Rosie doesn't seem very impressed by flowers. Both her and Sherlock mope a bit. Ten minutes in, the kid tires of walking on her own and asks to be carried, stopping right in front of him with her arms raised. Sherlock complies, but takes a note in the back of his mind that she will soon be too heavy to keep this habit up. They sulkily follow behind Mrs. Hudson, barely taking a look at the stalls.

An hour later she takes pity on them, and suggests they go back. She does have a vase of peace lily and seems happy about it, so the whole trip hasn't been a fiasco. John now works in the mornings, so he will probably be home soon, which cheers Sherlock up. They are approaching Regent's park when he spots a figure walking purposefully in their direction.

Her hair bobs around her neck and it's dyed auburn brown, but her face is carved in Sherlock's mind. At close distance, Mrs. Hudson finally notices, and squeezes his arm in silence. Mary smiles at them.

'Hey! I was looking for you guys. I went home but the place is empty, except for furniture.' there's a spark in her eye as she looks at Sherlock, and the child in his arms. 'Looks like everything changed.'

'It's been a while, dear.' Mrs. Hudson intervenes. 'Where have you been?'

'Solving problems.' is the dry response. She maintains eye contact with Sherlock. 'Keeping my family out of trouble.'

And then her tone completely changes, adopting a high pitch that sounds very unnatural. 'Hello, Rosamund! I missed you! Come on, talk to mama.' as she tries to pull the kid from Sherlock to her on arms.

Rosie catches her intent of taking her and screams sharply. Mary's eyes widen, and she drops her hands. Rosie turns her back to her, muffling the scream in Sherlock's coat, holding tight. 'What is wrong, Rosie?' Mary asks, not managing the high pitch anymore. 

'She's old enough to not like strangers.' Sherlock answers. 

Mary crosses her arms, pursing her lips. 'Where's John? I went to the clinic and they told me he left months ago.' 

"Also did you" his mind supplies.

'I will call him and tell you've paid us a visit.' 

She raises one eyebrow, smirk playing at the edges of her lips. 'I'm not visiting. I live here. I want to know why my family is not at home anymore.'

'I have scones.' Mrs Hudson interjects, and they both turn to her. Rosie starts bothering to get to the ground, probably thinking they will stay to play in the park. 'I baked them when I woke up. Let's go to my flat and talk while we wait for him.'

'Dooown.' Rosie whines, pushing herself from Sherlock's chest as far as she can.

He just adjusts his hold on her. 'No, Rosie. We can't play now. Let's go.'

-*-

John is furious. He arrives half an hour after them. Mrs. Hudson entertains them in her kitchen until them, and Sherlock gives lunch to Rosie while John and Mary go the client's office next door to have their shouting match. John shouts at least, he can't hear anything Mary is saying, which is usually how their fights go.

Rosie is definitely not happy about the whole morning, and fusses a lot to eat, making a mess of her face, his shirt, and the table. Mrs. Hudson tries the inane aeroplane technique, and she actually starts to accept the carrots, but pushes away the shredded beef every time. Mrs. Hudson tuts at this, but Sherlock has been suspicious she's not a fan of meat, even if the ratio of acceptance for fish and chicken is slightly better.

She still is hard to give in, but eventually Sherlock manages to put her to sleep. Perhaps a nap will improve her mood. John is in their living room when he comes downstairs. He has a duffle bag by his feet.

'Ah.' 

'Nope. Not "ah".' John comes to him, clutches Sherlock's shoulders with both hands. 'Listen, I hate this. I _hate_ this. But she's not leaving, and I don't trust her.'

Sherlock nods, trying to keep his face blank while his mind races.

'Would you take care of Rosie?'

He blinks. 'You're not taking her with you?'

'The hell I am!' he says. He squeezes the shoulders in his hold. 'She's safer and happier here. And I will not just blindly wait this time. We are thinking of something, me and this big brain of yours, ok?'

He grips John's nape, who smiles brokenly at him. 'Yes.'


	19. Asphyxiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I just want to finish this before October because it's getting a bit ridiculous.

It's like the world is underwater.

-*-

John drives very early to avoid central London's traffic at the morning rush time. He's been doing this for three days now, but still has to acclimatise to the huge urban SUV now in his possession. Living in London most of his adult life, and Afghanistan for a good chunk of years, he never really bought a car. They are expensive to acquire and to maintain, nevermind the exhausting traffic when one could just take the tube.

Of course, going back so far in the suburbs and continuing working in Paddington means a burdensome commute. To his surprise though, upon leaving 221, Mary had walked them to her parked brand new silver Range Rover Discovery. He was shocked, but when questioned about the funds she had just shrugged _'I always save some money.'_, to which he instantly knew it was another of her lies, because who saves money to just randomly spend on a 50k pounds car in freaking London?

She hadn't been happy at all about Rosie staying with Sherlock. In fact, they would have kept arguing about it on the way back home, if their relationship wasn't all based on avoiding significant conversations since the beginning. But he knows her enough to identify the locked jaw and neutral face as signs of being pissed off.

'You can take the car whenever you need.' she had said as they arrived at the house. 'All the documents are in the glove compartment.'

He had checked the pertaining stuff before getting out of the car. One _Carla Deprez_ was the owner, a citizen from Brussels of all places, that looked exactly like a brunette Mary Watson. Of course.

The car enables a bluetooth connection to his phone through the radio system. He prefers not to listen to music while driving, but he does tap the panel screen to make a phone call. It rings twice before they pick up.

'Dr. Watson.' Mycroft's voice reverberates through the car. The turns down the volume a bit with a wince. 'To what do I owe you the pleasure?'

'Is it possible to trace where Mary's money is coming from?' he asks while making a turn. He's already at Kensington at this point.

'It... could be possible, if she has a bank account. Are you suspecting foul play?' 

'She bought a 50k car, perhaps in Belgium, I don't think she would be able to do that with cash.'

'Ah.' he can hear there's someone else in the room. 'Which name has she used for the documents?'

'Carla Deprez.' he stops at a red light, and relaxes against the comfortable seat 'She also has a suitcase full of new clothes that don't seem they came from a sale. Latest model of iPhone and iWatch. An iPad she says is for Rosie. Is talking about repainting the house and buying new decor.'

It's perplexing how she is throwing money at him, like bringing gifts from a vacation trip. The whole ordeal stinks of something old he had hoped was putrefied. He keeps reminding himself that it probably never died if Ajay was able to find her - and she was able to find him. Linkages that seemingly were never completely cut off.

Mycroft talks to someone in the room and goes back to the speaker. 'I'll be in touch.'

-*-

They had agreed to have dinner out with Rosie near Marylebone. Sherlock obviously wasn't invited. So John leaves work and spends the rest of the afternoon at Baker Street, killing time before 7pm. Rosie is very happy to see "dada" again, and gives him a book about a family of rabbits so he can read aloud to her.

Sherlock feeds her beforehand, and promises to sit tight waiting for Rosie to come back. They arrive at the restaurant five minutes before Mary, who comes in a black cab. At the table she makes a show of giving the tablet to Rosie, showing some videos for babies in it, but the kid is not interested at all and seems very suspicious of her.

In the middle of his fettuccine Alfredo a text pings on his phone. He checks surreptitiously. It's from Mycroft.

_She appears to be working again._

\- *-

It's like the world is underwater. The house could be at the bottom of the ocean, where the water is so dark that the creatures below can't see others, can't see themselves even, and nothing good is supposed to be alive. One doesn't expect to be heard between drowning walls. It’s a heavy environment, to the point that any light disturbs him more than it’s alluring.

John could swim from one room to the other, in this house. And there’s always a figure lurking at the corners, watching him. Trying to create the alluring light, just so he can get close and closer and closer and then he would be swallowed.

The dark water is a massive weight on his head, pressuring his eardrums until they whistle, entering his nose and his mouth and his lungs, and he knows it’s not a house meant to be lived in. The house and its inhabiting creatures pull you down to the ocean floor, a slow asphyxiation method he can’t help but feel powerless when facing it.


	20. Trembling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself this would be the last project in which I write Mary. So I enjoyed doing this.

Diana is the morning receptionist of the clinic in Paddington, which is considerably bigger than his previous workplace. She's in her early twenties, bleaches her neck length hair and tends to be chatty about pretty much everything to anyone available to listen - he is never, for the record. John is aware she has a nose ring that is removed when she comes in and placed back at the end of the shift. 

Given that this is all information pertaining to the woman he is aware of, it comes to a surprise her sudden belligerent treatment of him. He asks for the list of scheduled patients for the day and she slams it at the reception counter, saying nothing. He blinks confused at her, but doesn't respond.

Later, he has to cover an usual diabetes patient from Dr. Lavalle, so the file is not in his office. He calls reception to verify its whereabouts, and instead of sending someone over she tells him dryly _ 'You can pick it up at the front' _ and hangs up on him. He takes a deep breath before excusing himself to Mrs. Weible, but goes to reception to get the file.

At the small coffee break room there is at least a kettle he can use and a box of decent tea that the doctors all bought together. During his ten-minutes break he is inhaling a cuppa when he sees through the open door Diana and Pablo, the nurse that assists him, talking at the corridor. She is gesticulating hard while saying something inaudible. Pablo is being attentive, and his jaw is visibly locked tight.

He considers that perhaps her erratic behaviour is generalised, and she's having a bad day altogether, if she's lashing out even at Pablo, who usually prefers to keep quiet and efficient. Obviously he's mistaken. A teenage boy comes in with an ugly throat infection that needs intramuscular injection of benzylpenicillin, which prompts him into hysterics. Pablo needs him and the mother to help hold the boy still and distracted from the needle. 

Pablo puts away all the material, and vacillates at the door for a moment before looking back at him.

'I have twin girls. They are seven.' he tells him without meeting his eyes.

His eyebrows twitch to indicate he's listening. 'Young father.' he cleans his throat, not knowing what aroused the information provided. 'You seem to be doing well.' he adds after noticing he sounded a bit judgemental unintentionally. 

Pablo faces him fully now. 'My ex-fiancée is their legal guardian. She took them to fucking _Glasgow_ with her new boyfriend and poisoned them against me. They never want to visit me and I can't just go there every weekend.'

John opens and closes his mouth like a fish a couple times. 'I'm... sorry. Isn't there a way-'

'So if you want to cheat on your wife, whatever dude, that's on you.' he interrupts John. 'But don't estrange her from her own daughter, you don't have the right.'

'Excuse me? What are you even-' and the door slams on his face. There are three scheduled patients next and a couple walk-ins, so he can't go after explanations right now. His blood is boiling the rest of the morning, though.

When his shift ends, he marches to the reception, because he's no Sherlock Holmes but there's clearly a connection somewhere. He stops dead when he sees Mary and Diana talking. Diana is holding Mary's hands between hers and is the one speaking as usual, while Mary nods and smiles weakly. They both glare at him when he approaches.

'I thought we could go pick Rosie together.' Mary tells him. Diana snorts. 'Grab a decent lunch.'

He looks incredulously from one to the other and spreads his arms. 'Sure thing. It does seem we are in need of some _private conversation_.' he answers between his teeth.

He can feel Diana glaring daggers at his back as he walks out with Mary. He notices she's holding some paper bags, and one from Ted Baker is handed to him when they enter the car.

'What is this?' he frowns, looking inside. A black peacoat too posh styled for him is the content. 

Mary shrugs. 'I thought you needed a new winter coat. Soon you'll need it and yours has a tear.'

He throws the bag at the backseat. 'Have a new source of income, you?' he asks, trying not to shout. Inside a car she can hear him perfectly well.

She crosses her hands in her usual weird way, looking at him with her head tilted to the side. 'Higher income than you ever made it in your life. Good thing one of us could still buy a house.'

'Great!' he throws his hands up, smiling at her. 'I am so grateful you are back at killing people just so you can buy a fancy coat for your husband.'

She also smiles, but is purely subverted. 'And your transportation to work. Feel taken care of?'

He trembles with the sudden wish of punching her teeth in, and clutches the wheel to cram it up. The car is still parked and he doesn't remember if his ticket time is over.

'I haven't a single clue what you're aiming at by coming to my workplace and talking shit about me to coworkers. How is that taking care of your family?' he spits.

She drops the smile. 'You don't decide whether I live or not with my daughter, John Watson.' she retorts, and he can't even recognise her anymore, with the new hair and new makeup and new clothes, and the face of someone who once held a gun to his face thanks to a smoke a mirrors trick by the one and only Sherlock Holmes. 'You went after me when I ran away to _protect_ you, and you promised this would work out between us.'

'This was the first. Time! You've _barely_ been here this entire _time!_' he can't help but raise his voice. 'Rosie calls everyone but she doesn't even _know_ who you are! Do you know her latest abilities? Do you have any idea of what she can do by herself, what she eats, the words she manages to say?'

'You **knew** what kind of person I am. You were almost on your knees to make me come back.' she also throws the other bags in the backseat. 'You never complained about me paying the mortgage, because you are a pathetic poor dog that waves your tail to whomever throws a bone of affection.'

'Mary...' he gives a warning tone.

'Oh and there's more!' she smiles sarcastically. 'Get off your moral high horse. You've killed people illegally before, you're just too stupid to make money out of it. **And** you pretty much had an affair before I left. You think I wouldn't notice? Now you want to extend the mistress status to Sherlock fucking Holmes, but be aware that _I. Won't. Let. You. _. Any court would give Rosie to me, so don't try to be funny on me, John. You'll regret it.'

She reclines in her seat while he's still shellshocked in place. 'And get on with it. We need to take her to lunch.'


	21. Laced drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on tumblr: thanks-mike-stamford

The difference between John and Sherlock's approach to people lies in the key question being asked. John keeps in mind _how_ people might react to something, whether Sherlock prefers to focus on _why_ people react certain ways. Obviously this leads to disagreement as to how valid someone's reactions are, since many are fairly irrational and should not warrant the consequent attitude. John always argues with him that if one can identify patterns of conduct caused by a specific set of emotions, reactions may not be rational, but are indeed logical - and therefore predictable.

Sherlock has to concede he has a point with that argument.

However, to assume behavioural patterns exist and to categorise them systematically are two completely different things. And Sherlock is the detective, ergo, the specialist in the matter. Even John, who supposedly planted the concept in his head, can have trouble interpreting the subtleties of people's attitudes.

For example, John was never much bothered by the lurking presence of David Payne, ex-boyfriend of one Mary née Morstan. Could be read as confidence in his own relationship. The man was, after all, invited to their wedding. Sherlock made sure to keep David at a respectable distance from the bride, but the groom seemingly hadn't noticed his efforts, nor had paid a fleet of attention to his previous romantic rival.

Sherlock, on the other hand, has always been intrigued by the man. David slinks at the corners of his Mind Palace like a piece of a puzzle he doesn't know the full picture. Why does the man still nurture feelings for Mary? She by all means seems to be the one who left him. Then, why does she keep him around? If she is so friendly, bordering on cosy, why did she break up with him at all?

His current client is being extremely boring, so that's where his thoughts are drifting during the consultation. He can't do legwork while taking care of Rosie, so since Mary came back, he's been taking cold cases from Lestrade, who made sure to affirm he was being benevolent, and clients whose problems are solved from his office at 221C. 20 minutes maximum of consultation per case are usually enough to receive a fee and not make a huge disturbance on Mrs. Hudson's daily activities, so she can stay with her goddaughter.

Today actually he only scheduled one client first thing in the morning, so he can take Rosie for her MenB jab at the clinic John works. John had told him about his ongoing reputation there, and while it would sound prudent to avoid appearing with his daughter, further cementing a bunch of fool's perceptions, they also don't know anything at all about their lives, they don't owe them explanations, and John never even liked them that much. Actually, If he chickens out of bringing Rosie there, it will convey the impression of guilt, to which he has no reason to.

He also has made a surprise appointment for the three of them this afternoon, regarding their sticky situation with Mary. He is anxious to tell John.

'I have no idea why someone would take these dvds, Sherlock.' the fifty-something whatever his name was sounds quite desperate. Sherlock always insists his clients call him by his first name. Mr. Holmes sounds too much like Mycroft for his taste. 'But Brenda is going to kill me if she finds out, and we had a rough patch less than two years ago beca- ahm.'

He interrupts himself at the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing. He supposes it's rude, but he sees John's name on the screen. 

'You'll find out that your wife was to one who took the dvds, converting them to digital archives I assume, since dvds are an increasingly obsolete media format. Didn't tell you to make a surprise, so I would check if there isn't an anniversary date coming up soon that you forgot.' he gets up and opens the door to the foyer gesturing for the man to leave. 'You can make the deposit after the confirmation, I have to get this, you know your way, bye.'

He closes the office door behind him, and hearing the front door also closing he slips out through the back door that goes to the spiral staircase, straight to the living room. The door from the foyer remains locked from the inside when he has a client, for safety measures. He gets the call.

'I'm sure you were expecting us a bit later this morning.'

'Shlo. Shlo, not okay.'

Sherlock stops in the middle of the stairs. 'John? What's going on?' he can hear street sounds in the background, which means John is not at home.

'Dun-no.' he is definitely hyperventilating. 'Wowd not right. Can't work. Shlock please.'

'Ok, ok, tell me where you are, I'll come and get you.' he runs upstairs to get his coat. Mrs. Hudson has the tv on, Rosie seems transfixed on a singing animals cartoon. 'Do you know where you are?'

She looks at him in confusion, so he mouths _Emergency_, and leaves again after she nods in comprehension. 

'Ahhmm, no sure. I-' he stops and restarts in a quiet whisper. 'I dunno I dunno please get me please.'

John sounds terrified. Sherlock closes his eyes to take a breath for a second, and starts signaling for a cab. 'Can you describe your surroundings? How long ago did you leave home? Are you in your car?'

He sobs a bit. 'Forty minutes ago. Was on bus. Wanna vomit. Everything is orange.'

A car stops and he gets in immediately. By his mental calculations, forty minutes on a bus from the suburbs to Paddington, he must have been close already. Then he paused. Orange?

'Destination?' he hears the driver ask impatiently. He must have questioned him already.

'Drive on the direction of Paddington, I'll give specifics later.'

The cab takes off and he goes back to the phone. 'John, please pay attention. You can send me your GPS location. Can you do that?'

'I- guess.'

'You don't have to hang up on me. Open your menu, go to the messages app, and press _Share location_ to my contact. Did you understand?'

He hears fumbling with keys. It takes a long minute, but his on phone pings with the notification. He pinpoints where John is, and informs the driver.

'That's great, I've got you. Now you stay exactly where you are, I'll be there soon. Please keep talking. What are you feeling?' he drums his fingers on his thigh, wishing they could beat the traffic faster.

'Things are _weird_. People looking me. Wanna vomit. Thirsty. All is orange.' he whines very quietly, like he doesn't want to be heard. Which is understandable given the circumstances, but the situation brings a strange familiarity to Sherlock.

'What happened before you left home? Did you hit your head?'

'No. Had break-fest and left.'

'What did you eat?'

'Toust and coffee.'

'Was it you who prepared it?'

There's a long pause. He looks out of the window to confirm he's getting closer. 'John?'

'I- She made coffee. I made toust.'

The growing suspicion is becoming solid in his mind. He keeps chit-chatting nonsense with him, until they get to where he is supposedly. He tells the cab to wait. Looking around he sees John sitting in on the front step of a penthouse. It appears he walked from the main avenue and landed here. 

John throws himself at him barely a second after recognising Sherlock. He holds John tightly and brings him to the cab. The driver eyes them skeptically. 'Do you want me to take you to a hospital, mate?'

He looks at John's face. There's saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth, and the normally deep blue of his eyes are not visible, pushed back by the enlarged pupils. Sherlock sighs. 'No, go back to Baker Street.'

John buries his face on Sherlock's chest. He's still trying to control his breath. 'John?' he murmurs to the top of his head. 'Do you have anyone that can cover you at the clinic?'

'Dr. Lavalle.' he mumbles into the blue scarf.

He fishes John's phone from his hand, and looking at the contacts he finds one Cynthia Lavalle and calls her, explaining John is unable to go to the clinic today. After he finishes the brief conversation, he hears John asking. 'Am I drugged?'

He goes back to holding him. 'Yes. I'd say LSD but we have to test it.'

And he also suspects why, but this is for when the effects pass. Meanwhile, he thinks back to David Payne and Mary Morstan.


	22. Hallucinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on tumblr: thanks-mike-stamford

Calling Cynthia Lavalle is only the first of his concerns. Now, there's a number of people who need to be contacted immediately, so he has to prioritise the order. As usual, Rosie Watson comes at the top.

Mrs. Hudson was counting on them being out, and while she can stay with the kid for a bit in emergencies, the long day that awaits them makes it a long day for her also. The combination of an old lady with a hip and an active toddler who is not potty trained is less than ideal. He hasn't gotten around signing her up for a nursery considering it is between school terms and central London is highly demanded.

He tries to think quickly. Who can he trust, who is adequate for babysitting, who is _available_ the whole day, and who falls in the overlapping category?

'Oh!'

He dials one his contacts marked as favourites. He picks up on the fourth ring. 'What happened?' Lestrades's voice sounds alarmed in his ear. 'Say _Camel one_ if you're being kidnapped.'

He rolls his eyes. 'I'm _not_ being kidnapped, and Camel one is disgusting. It's a bit of an urgency, however. Is this the week with your kids?'

'Ye-es.' he can hear the frown, his tone now suspicious. 'Their mother left them and is going to pick them up on Sunday. Why?'

'Would you mind staying with Rosie for the day? Can you do it? I can't go over details on the phone, but you know the drill.'

There's a pause. 'Is this a case you're busy with?'

'No. Personal matters. I'll stay at home, it's just not… a safe environment for the next 12 hours.'

'Right.' then more firmly. 'Right. Yes, I think I can. I'll go pick her up, give me half an hour.'

His chest lifts a bit, when he hadn't noticed it was so constricted. 'Thank you, Lestrade. I owe you this.'

Next one is for their appointment for the day. He sends a message asking for a postponement, due to unforeseeable circumstances that actually had everything to do with their scheduled conversation. 

Right after sending it, he opens the conversation of the sneakiest person on his network, who answers immediately.

**to: Wiggins**   
_I need a favour. Big thing. _

**received**   
_ya know I require $$_

**to: Wiggins**   
_Obviously. _

**received**   
_what_

**to: Wiggins**   
_Do you know John's house at Fulham? _

**received**   
_yes_

**to: Wiggins**   
_Enter the house. There might be drugs planted on it, remove them. If you find any remains of coffee also take it, but that's highly improbable anyway. Also, there's a duffle bag somewhere where you can store John's clothes, bring them. How much do you need?_

**received**   
_lemme tak a look at the stuff bfr_

**to: Wiggins**   
_And delete these messages. _

**received**   
_not an amateur_

As he opens another conversation, his answer arrives.

**received**   
_By what you told me about her, I suppose this was coming. Keep me updated. KD_

Excellent. One less issue. As he's in a row of asking favours, he sends the next one.

**to: Molly Hooper**   
_Do you make screen tests that detect LSD?_

He's already turning in Baker Street when she answers.

**received**   
_I could, but it's not common. It disappears from the organism quite quickly._

**to: Molly Hooper**   
_I need you to do it. I'll owe you this. It's a personal issue. Involves John._

**received**   
_U don't have to owe me, Sherlock. What sample can you get?_

**to: Molly Hooper**   
_What would be more effective?_

They are talking over the details when the car stops. John finally looks up, glancing around nervously. Sherlock pays the driver, removes his coat and throws it over John's head. They walk inside together.

Mrs. Hudson peeks through her door. 'Sherlock, what happened?'

'I'll explain later. I'm taking John to Rosie's room. Where is she?'

She looks at them assessing the situation. 'She's having a nap down here.'

'Great. Lestrade is coming soon to pick her up, I'll prepare her bag. I can't leave him alone for long, so tell him I'll explain everything when he comes to drop her at night.'

A toddler room is the safest in the house right now exactly because it's completely child proof. He's not sure what kind of psychedelic hallucinations John is having right now, but he gets bad enough with his own memories from war, nevermind on a drugged bad trip. He could be dangerous to Rosie, and to himself for the long ride that is LSD, if he diagnosed correctly.

Getting up two flights of stairs is a bit hard, and John sits on the floor as Sherlock uncovers his face, and puts away his coat. He throws some pillows on John's direction, in case he wants to lie down. He quickly puts up Rosie's stuff in a nappy bag. He fishes a small notebook and pen that he keeps in the pockets of his coat, and scribbles quickly a list of things she can eat.

'Are they comin' to gemme?' John finally speaks.

Sherlock glances at him from the dresser, where he's supporting the notebook. 'Nobody is coming to get you.'

'Ah. I feel sick.'

He straightens up. 'I'll get a bucket. Will you be ok for a minute? I'll be very quick.'

John nods and closes his eyes, stretching his legs and reclining against the wall.

He runs downstairs to drop the bag at the foyer and collect a bucket from under the kitchen counter. John is still in the same place, but looking around quickly, as if following a fly.

'How are you feeling? Here's a bucket if you need it.'

He sits beside him carefully. John is still following the invisible fly, but grips Sherlock's leg just above the knee. Something is still bothering him, though.

'Why weren't you driving?' John said he was on a bus, but he's been driving to work everyday. He can't imagine what would have been the consequences if the drug effect had kicked in while he was behind a wheel. He could have died.

'Gave back the keys. Tol' her to choke on them.'

Sherlock snorts, places his own hand on top of John's. 'Why did you drink coffee she made?'

John shakes his head, blinking rapidly. He scratches the side of his neck. 'Wanned to seem remorse. So she woulnnot pay attention.' A thin stream of saliva comes from his mouth and reaches his chin. Sherlock takes a tissue from his pocket, the one his old-fashioned father trained him to always keep there, and cleans it.

'Pay attention to what?'

John snorts and reclines again, thumping his heard hard against the wall with a dull noise. Sherlock winces in sympathy. 'I bugged her phone again. Even found hers shecret phone. Pssft. Bitch.'

Sherlock blinks at him, processing the information. He can't hide his following grin, and drops his head to kiss John's shoulder. 'Ah, John Watson. Always unpredictable.'

He takes his phone as surreptitiously as he can, and sends one last text for the day.

**to: Mycroft Holmes**   
_I need that favour._

**received**   
_Of course. You know, however, the price for the transaction. And it's not up to me._

**to: Mycroft Holmes**   
_Just do it._


	23. Bleeding out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thanks-mike-stamford on tumblr.

It takes four hours for the panic to start. Since the effect is not coming down, John fears the damage is permanent. How can anyone _enjoy_ this for god's sake? Alcohol, in a good measure, lowers his inhibitions, gives a different glow to people who otherwise wouldn't look much enticing, and lifts marginally his mood. A couple pints are enough to feel nice. While he thinks smoking is vile, he admits that a bit of naswar to smooth incoming hangover felt pleasant on the handful of times he did that in Afghanistan.

This is so different from alcohol. He had to get off the bus because everyone was _watching_ him. Staring intently and following his movements and being threatening. When he exited the bus, things just got worse. Everywhere he looked shined bright orange. The noise of traffic was extremely loud, while people's voices were muted. He saw people opening and closing their mouths so slowly, and no sound came out of it. The red lamp light from a barber shop jumped from its place and crossed the street. 

That was when he had run to a small side street and called Sherlock, after a lot of fumbling and dropping his phone. The drive home made him nauseated, but when he limited visual input, Sherlock's heartbeat started booming in his ears, and he developed a sudden awareness of his smell, overpowering and addictive. Being buried in Sherlock's chest had been a breath of heaven following the biggest physical distress since he was shot.

Rosie's room is very weird. He doesn't want to think about it, but her old rattle keeps jumping from the toy box, and it's very unnerving. It's been hours since they arrived, but he still can't place where the walls are. He can see the orange waves of heat, and the melting wallpaper, but he can't touch it.

He realises that he's thinking about hours. He's not sure how long has it been? He takes a look at his watch. It's a bit past noon. His watch also melts again his skin, and his breath shortens as he tries to remove it from his bone.

'John, wait, _hang on_ a second, I'll do it.'

Sherlock fights with him for the close, and takes the watch away. He covers his face with his hands, trying to go back to normal breathing. 'I'm going to die. I'm going to melt, I'm going to die, god no, god no-'

'_Shut. Up._' Sherlock cuts him off, holding his wrists, but doesn't attempt to take his hands from his face. 'You're not going to die. I know it's frightening, but it's going to be over. I promise.'

He looks at the angular face close to his own from between his fingers. 'I asked you not to be dead.'

The face is soft all over. 'And I heard you. I'm not going to die, _you_ are not going to die, ok?'

A couple more hours later he does feel a bit better, even if the lamps are still flying around. Sherlock attempts to have a more significant conversation, and he appreciates the effort. 

'So I was a substitute to David?'

'In a sense.' Sherlock replies. They are both laying on the floor, side by side, barefoot. John intertwines his pinky toe on Sherlock's. 'Mary Morstan was honestly just another identity, one that gives her security. She begins working at the clinic, finds the most vulnerable person she can find to trap in a marriage, so she can maintain a spot to come back to whenever she manages to get work.'

He furrows his brow, tries to evaluate the memories he can access. 'We used condoms. I'm pretty sure.'

'Probably tampered. A child is the cherry on top.'

'But then… Magnussen finds out about her.'

'No. _I_ find out about her. Magnussen she could deal with. Lots of people dealt with him, lots of people wanted to see him dead. She probably had currency to exchange with him. But me? I would tell you for sure. She didn't want my help, because the secret wasn't about her past, it was about the present she wanted to maintain. She has been active in murder for hire and whatever crimes since the beginning. That was the whole point of Magnussen.'

'So she kills you.'

'Yes. And employs emotional manipulation so you can keep Mycroft from her.'

He turns from the melting ceiling to Sherlock, who looks back at him. 'I don't understand. Why is she so explicit now? With all the money income, and badmouthing me and drugging me? What's that supposed to accomplish?'

He compresses his lips together, moving his eyes to the corners, as if thinking. Or thinking of a way to say what's on his mind. 'You became a liability. It wasn't worth it anymore. However, she still has Rosie. If you go ballistic on her, she takes Rosie and becomes a single mother, a victim. Rosie can be taken care of by a number of people who will think she is just working a normal job, and she avoids prosecution. Drugging you specifically with a psychotropic that takes time to kick in, she wanted you to get to work like this. She knew by your fight that you weren't driving anymore, so you would arrive at work completely high. _And!_ Oh, of course John. She knew Rosie would be there today. She made friends there. She wanted you to look incapacitated in public.'

'Marvelous.'

One hour later Sherlock suggests taking John's blood to send to Molly, mainly to confirm it's LSD in his system. John agrees, and they move to the small bathroom adjacent to Rosie's room. John sits on the closed toilet lid, watching as Sherlock dexterously makes a tourniquet in his right arm, and prepares a syringe with an empty vial attached.

He inserts the needle and blood fills the vial. As it happens, John also sees the syringe growing large, large _l a r g e _-

'**NO**!'

Sherlock quickly removes the syringe, and John's arm bleeds out copiously. He watches the detached limb becoming red. Next thing he notices is Sherlock making pressure and applying a bandage to it. John feels like his brain is buried in cotton. Sherlock cleans everything and puts the vial away in a thermal box.

'I'm sorry.' he finally manages. His throat rasps.

'It's fine. Up?' he pulls John to his feet after he acquiesces. Unexpectedly, Sherlock holds him gently, caressing the short hair at his nape with one hand and the extension of his back with the other. 'It will be over soon. I promised you. It will be ok.' 

John believes him, and thankfully it is over by the end of the afternoon. Sherlock waits by the sink as he takes a shower. He finds out Wiggins came by and left him the clothes that were back at the house. There's also a note saying "_Took the stuff w me_". Another irregular, a scrubby girl in her late teens called Nancy, gets the thermal box and a fifty. A bit later Molly confirms she has received it.

Mrs. Hudson pops by and makes Sherlock put the kettle on. Around dinner time, Lestrade comes by with Rosie. He lets him and Sherlock talk on the foyer, while he cuddles with her a bit. She babbles a lot of words at him, and he listens intently, humming and nodding in answer to her. 

When Sherlock finally comes back, Rosie is almost dozing in his arms, and he feels clear-headed for the first time since he left for work this morning. He sits in his armchair, motions for Sherlock to do the same.

'Right. Mary didn't give a single hint of existence today. What did you do, and what should _I_ do next?'


	24. Secret injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there are some self-harm scenes that could be upsetting. All of them happen in the bathroom.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr: I'm thanks-mike-stamford.

Sherlock entertains the always demanding Rosamund Watson while John talks to Keona Douglas, all four of them seated in a cafe near where she works. He had procured her services because he knows she is competent, knows that she feels grateful he got rid of her stalker while ending up on the wrong end of his ire which makes her more inclined to help him, and of utmost importance, she's aware of how his cases, being not general public friendly, usually require unorthodox methods. 

They discuss all the details pertaining to child abandonment law in the UK and how to prove it. John not only has the GPS records from Mary's journey to Morocco, but also from her newly acquired phone. Granted, it's still a day too early to say she vanished once again, but they'll provide the data soon. 

Also, a considerable number of people can testify to her lack of presence in the past year. Co-workers from the old clinic in Fulham, their neighbors, Watson's pediatrician, and even the babysitter who was left waiting with the then baby on the day she ran away from Brent Sullivan. 

The biggest issue with Mary Watson is how legally slippery she is in her profession. A CIA rogue with the ability to invade MI6 databases in front of the runner man himself, changes identities like clothes and is not even caught on tax evasion. She had them the same way Moriarty had. Nonetheless, Mary is no Moriarty. She was never interested in being an invincible evil criminal genius for the sake of it. She definitely wouldn't kill herself to win a mind game. 

If anything, Mary is more like Magnussen. Surviving in the world using low morals and wretched methods, supported by a highly skilled mindset. Magnussen had fallen because his strength was also his weakness: his storage of blackmail information was inaccessible, but it was of no use if said storage organ got splattered on the ground. And Mary's weakness is going to be the trap technique she used for John: Rosie.

She would never anticipate losing power over them by being ruled a neglectful parent by the court. Sherlock is counting on the surprise factor.

Watson is acting cranky because of the jab she took earlier. She had whimpered a bit during the procedure, but what appears to be bothering her the most is the residual arm pain. He focuses on distracting her so the conversation between her father and the lawyer is not interrupted, but he's trying not to dwell on the fact that he's the one who needs a distraction.

They had sat down the night before and talked about what was going to happen. First things first, he had told John how he created a diversion to quickly remove Mary out of the picture. He improvised that quickly after John confessed to bugging her phone, and it was a relief she took the bait. He sent a message as a possible client about a man he needed killed in Wales. The profile he provided lacked the crucial information that the concerned target was actually a missing person for ten years now. His network saw her leaving London immediately after he confirmed payment on her Paypal. 

Of course the ruse wasn't supposed to hold up long. The second step had involved favours being asked. When the three of them took refuge in Brighton due to the threats on Mary's life, MI6 had captured another man who was very much intending to destroy her for years now. The man was still in custody yesterday because of valuable information he possessed on a myriad of criminal acts in the UK.

Needless to say, the favour he invoked was to release the man. The guards were supposed to heavily hint at how to find Mary. They would surely come in contact sooner or later.

The issue however is that Mycroft, despite basically being the government, cannot go over every single protocol existent. So other people had to be involved in the decision process of releasing said prisoner. And how the favour should be returned was up to them, so the transaction would avoid the official routes. And these high ranked government officials wanted Sherlock to do their dirty legwork in familiar land to him.

John had been _pissed off_ when he found out about the agreement last night. 

'You can't make these decisions about my life on your own, idiot.' John had rage whispered over Watson's sleeping form. 'I thought you had stopped doing this.'

'We have to attack from all possible fronts. And you are too close to make a logical judgement.'

'Yeah, screw that, don't pretend you are not deep inside the situation. And they want you to go on a mission in Eastern Europe _again_? After they had to rescue you from Serbia? After they almost sent you on a suicide mission for killing the scum of a person that was Magnussen? What hell of a plan is that?'

'This is not like that. Mycroft guaranteed the mission is not a veiled punishment. It's not supposed to take more than a month.'

'Mycroft also sold you to Moriarty to get information from him. Forgive me if I don't think he's the most trustworthy person regarding your well-being.'

That had been an exhausting conversation.

What he didn't tell John was his own fears. The ones he is trying very hard to conceal right now. The intrusive thoughts keep clouding his determination, and it's so annoying how he doesn't _get over_ this.

Pain frightens him. Torture is something he definitely doesn't want to revisit ever again. The prospectus of falling into this situation once more had been so pungent that when he was informed of the mission he should take up after murdering Magnussen, his first thought had been _I'd rather die_. He had tried to ensure that would happen before the plane got midway to his destination.

After the awkward discussion with him, John had gone upstairs to put Watson in her cot. Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom to take a shower. After scrubbing thoroughly, he turned the water cold, and entered the stream face up. 

"I can control it." he had thought.

The water blocked his nostrils and filled his mouth and he impeded himself from inhaling just a second more, just a second more, just a s…

He ended up sprawled on the floor, coughing, trembling from the cold, attempting not to acknowledge the tears running to the drain with the soap, like the fool he was.

He had dressed in pyjamas and gone to sleep beside John for the first time in almost a month, since Mary came back.

So if he feels his stomach clenching miserably and his heart skipping a beat (_not medically accurate_) every once in a while, he ignores it. Right now all he has to do is don't let Watson scratch her arm, and make her interested in the drawing sheet of paper the cafe equipped them with.

He is so inattentive he doesn't notice their meeting is over and they are in a cab until halfway to Baker Street. 'Where's my lemon tart?' he inquires, glancing around the seat.

'You ate it in two bites.' John looks up from the documents he's skimming, and frowns at him. 'Are you all right?'

'I wish I had a second.' he sighs. 

'I can check for you at Speedy's if you clean her, if the face she's making is what I think it is.' 

It definitely is, and it smells. He hopes she feels safe enough on her feet soon so she can be potty trained, as the appropriate age in all the children's websites (18 months) seems to be approaching.

Giving her a bath means he gets all wet too. He announces he's going to take a shower himself after John came back upstairs, sans tart but carrying a Danish pastry from Mr. Chatterjee. 

He takes off his clothes and before he reaches the shower, he catches a glance of his reflection. 

Sideway, one of the scars in his back is visible. The white thin stripe comes from the right shoulder blade facing downwards, and it fades before reaching the second to last rib. He honestly doesn't remember much from the incident, probably due to the sleep deprivation. He has to ask Mycroft if he hallucinated deducing his torturer wife's affair in serbian. He's not even sure he can still speak serbian, or if he was ever able to.

He touches the scar with the fingertip of his left hand. Curious how some scars are protuberant on the skin, and others not. In the end all of them are about pain. This one he can see perfectly fine, but touch alone doesn't identify it. If he closed his eyes the scar was invisible. It didn't exist. And yet the pain is imprinted in his brain.

He can control if he feels pain or not. He digs the nails in the skin where the scar sits. And pushes a bit more. It hurts but not like he remembers it. The hand is removed, leaving four reddish dents in its place. He watches the dents slowly becoming purplish. It doesn't come even close to what he wanted. 

He opens the under the sink cabinet, where his shaving kit lies. The razor is sharp. He slides the blade over the scar and the dents quickly, like removing a bandage. In the first few seconds he feels nothing, and then the pain comes, acute and a bit uncomfortable. There's a thin cut where the scar sat, fully red, and a drop of blood comes out of it. He put the pain there. He knows how much it will hurt, and he can make it stop. He can end it anytime. 

As he raises the razor again, there's pounding on the door. He almost drops the object.

'Hey, what's taking you so long?' John's voice reaches him from the other side, sounding a bit annoyed.

He looks around frantically. 'I'm.. having a bit of trouble defecating. Use the one upstairs.' he answers firmly.

'... Right.'

There's a pause of silence, Sherlock takes a relieved breath that he can't finish because John suddenly barges in the bathroom. He instantly pulls a towel from the hanger to cover his torso.

'You don't fool me, Sherlock Holmes.' John says as he closes the door behind him. 'What are you doing?'

They just stare at each other for a long moment. Sherlock keeps the towel between them as a shield, very much aware that he's starkers, and it makes him the most vulnerable person in the room. 'I'm not using drugs, if that's what you're thinking.'

John surveys the bathroom. 'It's not what I'm thinking.' his eyes land at the razor that had fallen on the floor in the commotion. The bloody razor, figuratively and literally. He takes the razor, and drops it in the sink. He closes his eyes for a single moment, holding onto the counter, and seems to gather up courage. 'Can you drop the towel, please?'

Sherlock holds it more steadily. 'I'd rather not.'

'Well, I'm not moving from here, so you can try to knock me up to leave the bathroom, and we both know how _that_ ends, or you can make it easier and just show me.'

The taste of bile comes from the back of his throat as he puts away the towel. The cut is not even that bad, could easily be taken as a miscalculation of shaving if it was located on his face or jawline. As it is, however, no mistake can be proven. He watches John's face harden, and his fists open and close.

'You don't always do this.' John asserts, but with a tone of unsureness in his voice. 'I would have noticed.'

Sherlock crosses his own arms over his chest. He's feeling super exposed and it's not comfortable.

'Please talk to me. Don't leave me out like this.' and there it is, the wobbly threat of tears, the very last thing Sherlock wants. The concept of John Watson crying is enough to distress him, seeing it right now… He doesn't really have enough energy left to deal with it.

He opens his mouth, but closes again. He's going to explain, John has to know about the issue that has been keeping him awake, but it's not fair on any of them, their biggest problem right now will be soon resolved, and if he verbalises his feelings all his efforts will just have a sour taste. He reformulates the explanation in his head, but what actually comes out of his mouth is a traitorous hiccup.

'I'm afraid.' is all he manages to say, and his voice is barely above a murmur.

John picks up the discarded towel and places it over Sherlock's shoulders. He feels himself being pushed to sit on the toilet lid. He observes in a haze John wetting a cloth and cleaning the blood of the little wound. He kisses Sherlock's forehead when he's finished. He washes and puts away the razor.

He goes back and kneels between Sherlock's legs, taking his hands between his own, and also kissing them. 'You are not alone.' he says while pressing Sherlock's hands to his mouth. 'We are fixing this. Nothing bad will happen to you. This is _my_ promise this time around.'


	25. Humiliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, an update so quickly! I got inspired by the near end.

John understands why Sherlock avoided taking him to a hospital when he was drugged. If it found a way to his record, there would be an official inquiry at work, and he could lose his license. Molly's screen test had come back positive for LSD, so Sherlock's choice made sense, it's a narcotic that one can't do much beyond waiting for it to wane, and it doesn't leave traces on the organism. Too convenient for people to believe he hasn't been taking the stuff regularly.

None of that diminishes the fact that working at this surgery has become unbearable. The environment has never been his cup of tea to begin with, but since he had been labeled as the cheating spouse alienating his daughter, the understated general hostility towards him makes the whole morning go as slowly as possible. He reaches the conclusion that it's honestly not worth it feeling humiliated every day.

He can handle this later, however. What he worries most right now is Sherlock. He had hidden well from him, and John just took as suitable how they barely talk about their feelings. It is a difficult task for both of them. But he hates that Sherlock saw and understood and learned about John so quickly: his depression when they first met, his PTSD which affects him the whole time they know each other, his disappointment at his outburst at Baskerville, his grief when he resurrected, his absolute boredom when he came back from honeymoon, his general unhappiness towards his marriage.

It seems that Sherlock is a blind spot to John. He fills every part of John's life, he's all John can see when they are in a room, and while it may have sounded a bit unhealthy for his old therapist, since the beginning John didn't mind the least. And yet, he keeps missing these things. How Sherlock truly feels. Is it because the intensity of his relationship to him is already so much without acknowledging Sherlock's reciprocity, that he unconsciously overlooks it so he doesn't get overwhelmed?

Whatever is the explanation, his denial has made him take some bad decisions. He scorned Sherlock's reasoning, and he jumped out of a building. He ignored Sherlock's blatant sadness and found him in a drug den. He undermined Sherlock's dedication, and ended up with a body at his feet. He can't keep doing that.

Finding him in the bathroom was so shocking he had eventually settled down on the floor, as a result of his knees failing him. It's jarring that Sherlock had reached a point he felt the need to hurt himself. It breaks his heart. What if he hadn't noticed in time? Would it escalate? It's absolutely scary and he doesn't want to think about that, but he does need to do something about it.

Which is why, after work, instead of going back home he opts for invading Mycroft's office, a place he hasn't been to in years. There's a young man behind a large computer monitor at the reception, with a bluetooth phone device connected to his ear. It's the type of worker trained to ignore whoever stops at the desk and makes you feel displaced, which is not going to happen today.

He just walks straight to the office door, and the man jumps out of his seat. 'Sir, you can't enter!'

'Watch me.' he says, already pushing the door open.

'Sir, please-' the guy tries to pull his arm, just as Mycroft's robot minion comes out of the door ajar, Blackberry in hand as usual.

'Are you scheduled, Dr. Watson?' she asks with her brand dull smile of a lifeless human carcass. 

He looks at the receptionist holding his arm. 'You get off me, lad, or I sure hope you have medical leave in your contract.' the man steps away. He turns to the assistant. 'You're very much aware I don't, but he'll listen to me anyway… What is your name today? Barbara? Caroline?'

'Give me a minute.' is her only reply as she goes back to the office. 

He crosses his arms but doesn't move, taping his foot and looking around. Desk Guy resumed typing but keeps giving him nervous side glimpses. Perhaps he's new. He'll get used to it, or look for a new job.

'Dr. Watson.' not-Anthea opens the door wide to him, and closes after her, leaving only him and Mycroft in the dramatically dark office.

'John.' Mycroft smiles at him close-lipped. 'I was in the middle of a meeting with a chancellor four time-zones away.'

'Lovely. I'm sure you can call them later for tea.' he sits down in front of him. 'Let's have a little chat about you using Sherlock again as exchange currency.'

'You are being unfair to me, John. I care deeply about him, but if he needs the government involved...'

'Cut it off. Getting Mary out of the picture is _good_ for you and your kind, Mycroft. We both know you were making a bigger effort leaving her free to wander around.'

Mycroft sighs and pinches his nose. 'I can't deny that Sherlock's work is highly regarded by my colleagues. He would be permanently on the payroll if only he agreed to it, which would be a much better use of his abilities.'

He leans forward. 'But he doesn't want to. He hates it. You _know_ that. Stop trying to manhandle him into working for you and respect his wishes.'

'What do you want me to do? The agreement is done.'

'Then renegotiate it. Aren't you the mastermind of bargaining with people? Don't make him leave for this mission.'

'You and Sherlock have this poor habit of overestimating the power of my position. I am _not_ the government, nor omnipotent.'

He reclines once again, taking a moment to regard the older Holmes. He sees some parallels between them, just like he and Harry have their similarities, and yet the two pairs of siblings are so different from each other. 'But you're not minor either, Mycroft. He can do something else, I'm pretty sure there are a number of services he can provide without being thrown to the lions every opportunity. Look, if you want me to beg, I will.'

Mycroft studies him, and moves to open a drawer at his left. He takes a large file from it, deposits on the table, and thumbs hastily through the pages, skimming the contents. John waits patiently. He finally sees something of interest, stopping to read in its entirety.

'Ah. There is a local matter that needs to be attended.' he removes the document from the file, which is returned to the drawer. 'I'll try to intercede for it. Call my assistant on the way out, I'll sort an appointment for tomorrow morning.'

John feels as if a weight is removed from his chest. He nods and gets up to leave. At the door, Mycroft calls him. 'John? Thank you for taking care of him. I don't think he would let me.'

'He mostly doesn't let anyone. You just have to do it anyway.' he bows his head slightly and departs. His family is waiting for him.


	26. Abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm over there on tumblr: thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> I made some research but obviously I had to take some liberties on UK's legal system.

'Dada, ughhhh.'

He is idling scrolling through the email account attached to his blog, which hasn't been updated in ages. After everything they've gone through, he concludes he doesn't want his life on display anymore. In fact, on a recent whim he decided to delete Facebook and Instagram. He barely ever posted on Facebook, having created one after coming back from Afghanistan because Harry told him it was a good tool to keep up with people at arm's length. Mary had been the one to convince him to create Instagram, initially to post their pictures at dates - most times she did it herself.

The last post isn't even his - Sherlock uploaded it during his honeymoon. Mary had joked about it, making fun of Sherlock, while taking jabs at him for getting distracted from her. He had been thinking about Sherlock's face during his wedding, and at the same time avoiding thinking what it _meant_. The post only made his own chest pang, and he chose to let Mary take over his attention, even if it had annoyed him.

So he is inspecting his inbox, that now and then still receives fan mail and the odd case, when Rosie calls. He looks up immediately. She has her little fists raised and clenched, and face munched. He drops the phone immediately, picks her up and runs to the bathroom.

Sherlock has been indexing his shirts by colour palettes for the past hour in their bedroom, but the door is open. As he sits Rosie on the toilet step stool, Sherlock appears hovering over his shoulder, probably having heard him. The two of them stay still, hardly breathing. 

'Uuuuuuuugh.' 

Some characteristic splash sounds are heard one after the other, and then she relaxes, starts swinging her feet. They look at each other grinning and high five.

-*-

His notice ends, at last. Dr. Gujjar, his boss, is less than thrilled that he ended up staying for such a short period, but he had given himself two months after the drugging incident to cool off and reconsider, and time hasn't changed his feelings. He still has his army pension, which is not much, but it means he won't go from a yearly salary to zero pounds plus benefits for an indeterminate duration. Another month in advance for his contract termination notice, and here he is.

Three months and once more, no news from Mary. The GPS tracker had been confiscated by Mycroft and co., so he has no idea if they know her whereabouts. He assumes they'll do the courtesy of warning him if she's in London. Two weeks ago her car was found near Swansea, in a parking lot. John is unable to get too tranquil, since she has been gone for longer periods of time before, and had still come back to torment them. Every day that passes he breathes a little easier, and keeps hoping it lasts.

He brings a small cardboard box to his last day of work. After the last patient, he pulls it from the cupboard, and starts filling with his stuff. There's not much since it never felt like a permanent position, no pictures on the desk as he grew paranoid of his coworkers becoming allies of the wrong side. The only thing incriminating are the documents he has kept locked in the drawer for months, since he first moved back to 221B.

He still hasn't talked to Sherlock about the adoption papers he's been studying for so long, but he hopes they'll have the opportunity soon. He just doesn't know how to start a conversation like this, with so much meaning. This means he expects _forever_. He wasn't even able to propose to Mary, for god's sake. She had just assumed what was going to happen hadn't Sherlock interrupted them in the restaurant, and took the engagement ring from him. 

He had been kinda relieved she did that due to his inability of speaking aloud important things. He had been hiding from himself, deep in his chest, that after Sherlock returned he wasn't so sure about marrying her. He had confessed things to Sherlock's grave, and none of its content was replicated in his feelings for Mary. Only a piece of stone in the whole world knows it.

Second reason the adoption topic hasn't come out is his lack of closure from her. He doesn't know what is going to happen in the close future, nevermind forever. He needs to be sure there are no impediments. He needs to get rid of this terrible obstacle he put himself into.

Mary is already on a thin line with LSCB. He started judicial action against her, and she failed to appear in court twice. The social worker had asked him if he had reported missing person on her. He had just replied they are used to her disappearing from time to time. He has evidence she hasn't been present at all since Rosie was a baby, after all. He counts on the Holmes brothers to testify for him in case people start thinking he's a wife murderer.

He closes his box with tape and leaves. Diana makes a show of not looking at him. One more person that hates John, for Sherlock's list. John is sure he has a lot of fun compiling it. He suddenly remembers Mary had a bigger list than him, which he never set his eyes on. He'll ask Sherlock about that. He surely needs some laughs.

Walking back home he thinks about his career possibilities. He needs flexibility, to be able to help Sherlock, an activity that has always pleased him, and also be a constant to Rosie, who despite everything was deprived of a mother. He also needs money. It's just so many factors he has to work on, it's hard to make a plan of action.

He enters 221 and goes to Sherlock's office at first, to leave his box. Hiding in plain sight, he's pretty sure Sherlock won't bother snooping through his things because they are right there on display. Going upstairs to the living room, he is greeted with hurricane Watson. 

'’DADA, mail!' 

'Hello, miss thing!' he scoops her up and receives a wet kiss at the side of the nose for his trouble. 'What did you say? Mail?'

She points to the fireplace mantlepiece, where there's a letter pinned down with Sherlock's knife. Getting closer he sees the official emblem from social services. He glances at the sofa, where Sherlock is lying in his typical praying position, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. He snorts, and opens the letter. As he reads its contents, his grin grows bigger.

'You deduced it, didn't you?' he waves the paper, and Sherlock opens one eye to spy on him.

'Obviously.' he shifts, and pouts just once. 'Also, Ms. Douglas called me this morning.'

'Ha!' he feels so light he could touch the ceiling, and Rosie bounces in his arms. He walks to the sofa and promptly drops her over Sherlock, who receives the package with a "oof".

Mary Watson has been deemed unreachable, obliging the court to find her neglectful. Case was closed as child abandonment, making John H. Watson sole legal guardian of Rosamund Watson.

Said subject is currently vigorously pumping her fists over one Sherlock Holmes' chest, so John decides to join her, cupping the nape of the victim, fingers tangling in the soft curls, and kissing him right over the full smile.


	27. Ransom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I'm rambling on tumblr: thanks-mike-stamford

It's not something they do that frequently. Sometimes… sometimes it's late at night, Rosie is deep asleep upstairs, and the baby monitor only emits static noise. Mrs. Hudson could be awake downstairs for all they know, sipping or smoking her herbal soothers, obscured but for the dim light of the telly, quiet as a mouse.

They are in the dark themselves. Since the bedroom is at the back of the building, street lights don't really reach inside, and the neighbours' windows have their curtains fastened, hopefully also in slumber.

They push the bed covers with their feet, laying side by side, breathing into each other's air. John holds onto Sherlock's left thigh, thumb lightly brushing over the scar Todd Fuller put there with a fillet knife.

'Tell me.' he says softly, and presses his nails into the marked flesh. They stare into each other's eyes until their breathing is synchronised. He relaxes his fingertips for two seconds before digging them again. Sherlock exhales suddenly at the move, so he repeats. 'Tell me.'

Sherlock just minimally shakes his head, and shifts some inches closer. John removes the space between them, maneuvering into the folded area and biting the curve of his neck right when it becomes his shoulder. Sherlock's arms encircle him tightly, making a noise from the back of his throat. John unlocks his teeth and kisses gently the spot. He drifts to the earlobe just above it, murmurs into his ear 'Tell me.', and bites it.

He pulls the earlobe back with his teeth, while fully grasping the thigh under his hand and squeezing it _hard_, right over the scar and the nail dents. Sherlock makes a soft sound again at the back of his throat.

'Stop!'

John immediately drops everything, pulling back his head to look at his face. The grey-blue eyes are hidden behind closed eyelids. The muscles around them are locked, he couldn't be mistaken as a sleeping person. Some seconds later, John's being stared down again. He can't move much farther than he is because Sherlock never released him. 

'Thank you.' is the quiet response.

John relocates his hand from the thigh to the warm back, caressing it in wide circles. He touches the side of Sherlock's nose with his own, relishing the feeling of Sherlock's eyelashes against the top of his cheeks. 'Anytime.'

-*-

The USB stick arrives somewhere by the end of November, early in the morning. Sherlock, not really being a morning person if he doesn't have an interesting case on, is lounging on his armchair draped in his white sheet (pants on, by previous agreement), trying to not look sulky while sporting a crumpled pillow face and disarranged frizzy curls. Rosie had decided to wake up before dawn, refusing to settle down again. 

John is idling looking at the crime section of the newspaper, out of years' habit. Gruesome murder always improves everyone's mood, including himself, even if he has better social tact than to admit that aloud.

The bell to 221B rings, instead of the office's. Sherlock immediately runs to the window, which is quite artful, considering the sheet. He peeks out on the street and just says 'Mycroft.' under his breath, but doesn't make a move to change. John just rolls his eyes and goes downstairs to open the door.

It's not Mycroft, but one of his minions, who delivers a small envelope in his hand and leaves without a word, to which John just raises one eyebrow. The envelope is addressed to him, and the USB stick is inside. He sits Rosie on the high chair with her giraffe and her toy piano, and she proceeds to smash it randomly to produce noise. Sherlock has been setting up his laptop, and it is ready for them when he sits down beside him.

It only contains two files,a pdf document and a MP-4 video. He clicks to open the video.

It's Mary. Her hair is dyed ink black, longer than John has ever seen on her. It looks like a messed nest, fitting with the roughen up face. There's a dark bruise covering one of her eyes, tinted with green at the edges. Her lips are dry, and when she opens her mouth to speak, he can see one tooth missing. She looks angry, and now that he thinks about it, it's not an emotion he's used to see on her.

A man wearing a balaclava and Liverpool cap stands behind her, holding a knife to her neck. He nudges her back and she speaks.

'You have until tomorrow 12pm to send 200 thousand pounds or he will kill me. The details on how to proceed are in the file.' her voice is neutral. Suddenly a sob comes out. 'Take me home. Please, my love.'

The video ends. Sherlock sits still beside him. 'Are you all right?'

John sighs, and lies his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The wheels of his brain are whirling wildly. Sherlock rests his cheek over the top of John's head. A loud melodic noise announces Rosie has dropped her piano. Gently, Sherlock gets up to collect it and put it back in place. John watches the simple act, and then on a whim he removes the stick from the laptop without the security procedure and stands.

'John?' he hears the inquiry but his vision is blurred at the sides. He just walks to the fireplace they had started to welcome the cold weather, and throws it in there. The gasp is audible in the living room.

Sherlock appears at his side, both looking at the fire eating the little object. The smell of burnt plastic invades his nostrils. In the background Rosie throws the piano on the floor again.

'You have to stop doing that.' Sherlock says. 'It's not good for the environment.'

A hysterical giggle threatens to come up his throat. He just kisses Sherlock's bicep and goes to attend Rosie Watson, who is now trying to dive into the carpet to retrieve the giraffe.


	28. Beaten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, it had to happen

The flat in Canary Wharf has an adequate position in the luxury category, Sherlock can't deny. Prime location, large space to fill, the view to the Thames is the cherry on top. Neighbourhood is certainly composed of an uppity crowd familiar to whoever is owner of the property. As it sits completely empty, devoid of even furniture for months since it was acquired, he supposes nobody in the tall building would bat an eyelash when the news of it being used for money laundering are divulged.

Entering these types of buildings, gatekept 24/7, is never simple, but he has an international reputation for a reason. Disappointedly enough, lockpicking into the flat is the easiest part, even considering the security cameras pointed to the foyer and the corridor leading to the lift.

This is the fourth luxury flat he finds empty. The junior minister laid a thick hand on this entrepreneurship. Corruption is always so tedious.

But _of course_ the day he does a break in, the suspect in question decides to pay a visit to the property. Of all the ones he used in the scheme, he _has_ to choose the Canary Wharf one today. Sherlock hears the door unlocking from where he stands in the spacious balcony. Through the tall glass window panels of the balcony he can see below him the busy streets of London mid morning.

He can't run away. Opening the front door to the living room, without any mobilia to hide behind, exposes him instantly. So he just clasps his hands at his back and faces George Hammond-Webb.

'Ah, you must be Holmes, the busybody.' George says, locking the front door with the key, and walks slowly in his direction. 'I was alerted you were sniffing around my flat in Holland Park. You think you can just get away with invading people's property like this?'

Sherlock wides his eyes at him. 'Oh but I did get away with it, if you are just aware of these two.'

It's kinda funny seeing his feathers getting all ruffled. 'Did your brother set you up? I always suspected he knew too much for a whatever man in the government.'

'Pick any super secret political topic and you'll find out he has his greasy hands all over it.' he replies while examining his nails. 'Paying these irrelevant favours to him is a burden I hope to get rid of soon.'

George steps into the balcony finally. 'It's a very tall building, isn't it? Panels are so fragile, they can easily drop someone down there. Especially if they are breaking in and don't know how to operate the windows. You have experience falling off buildings last I heard. I do wonder.'

He tilts his head slightly. 'Money laundering is one thing many are ready to do given the opportunity with low risks. Murder, though? Didn't think you had it in you.'

George produces a small bottle of pepper spray from his jacket pocket. 'It's not murder if it's an accident. Now, I'm- **what the hell?**'

The spray drops to the floor as John immobilises the politician on the floor, knee planted at the small of his back, pulling his wrist back at a breaking point position. The man's face is pressed to the floor with John's other hand. '**Where the fuck did you came from?**' George's voice is muffled by the stone floor, and he still manages to sound pissed.

John frowns sarcastically at him, even if it probably wasn't visible to the man. 'He's Sherlock Holmes, as you already stated. There's _always_ two of us.' he uses the hand securing the man's short hair to scratch the face on the floor a bit. 'By the way, I don't appreciate you threatening him, just be warned.'

'You took your time in the room.'

He looks up at Sherlock, who's clearly trying to hold back a smirk. 'Had to make time for you to record him. Already texted Mycroft while waiting. Pass me those cable ties you have with you, won't you.'

They lock George's wrists and ankles, and drag him together to the living room, positioning him to face the bare wall. They go back to the balcony to wait for the personnel to arrive, watching the incredible view side by side.

'So this is it, then?' John asks.

'Yes. I have enough evidence for this case to be over on my part. Favour paid back.'

The unsaid implications are left hanging over them for a few minutes, but Sherlock can't hold back anymore. 'We can't keep doing this.'

John smiles sadly. 'No.'

'Can you believe it? I mocked Mycroft's aversion for legwork for years, and here I am, denying the dangerous cases.'

John turns to him, worry written all over his brow and eyes lines. 'You don't have to, you know that right? In the end, Rosie's safety is my responsibility. You love the work. It's part of who you are and if I take that from you...'

'You are not taking anything from me.' he picks John's hand. The size disparity in them would have made him embarrassed years ago, but now he just shivers at the notion. 'The work is important but it's not everything. And I'm just downsizing, not giving it up. Besides...'

He looks down, frowning at his feet. John interlinks their fingers, maintaining eye contact until he looks back up. 'I just feel it hasn't been much fun anymore, since I came back.'

He places his free palm on Sherlock's chest, right over the spot where, under the layers of clothes, is located the most cruel scar on his body, in John's opinion. The bullet wound, right in the middle of his torax. The one that made Sherlock's clinical death a reality for two long minutes. 

He swallows hard. 'Why do I feel she still managed to beat us, in the end?'

Sherlock places his large hand on John's hair. It feels soothing. 'She didn't. Things were going to change sooner or later. Circumstances may have accelerated the process, but you know we could never keep up the rhythm forever.'

He searches for something in Sherlock's eyes. 'But how are you feeling about this?'

Full lips contort in an unhappy line. 'Honestly? Tired. I've been so tired all the time. If there's something I gave up during all that happened, is trying to over control things. I'm just glad. That you.' he looks so mortified an actual blush paints his cheeks. The nerve of him to look so adorable and uncomfortable at the same time. 'That you are here with me. I didn't think this could happen.'

He raises the hand in his chest to trace that impossible face with his fingertips. A glass of scotch would masquerade the sensation of free fall his stomach is doing right now, but he must work with what he has. 'I love you.'

Sherlock widens his eyes at him. 'Sorry to sprung that on you, needed to get it out. I talked around it last time, putting _her_ in the equation, so I just wanted to say it clearly. Only for you.'

He steps into John's space, clutching at John's shoulders. John moves to hold him at the waist. They hear voices in the corridor. George had locked the door from inside after all. He's not expecting anything, and it's fine, really, but Sherlock murmurs 'I love you too.' close to his ear before moving away to open the front door. John just rests against the glass panel, arms crossed and a tiny smile in his face, watching Sherlock do his thing.


	29. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I already said.

Everything they needed from the house at Fulham had been taken a year prior, when they moved to 221B and Mary was once again nowhere to be found. That left the place with furniture and all her personal belongings left behind. John doesn't want to go there if it can be avoided, so his lawyer handles all the necessary arrangements. Everything inside is given to donation, eventually, or landed in the trash, if it was unusable or too personal. Since it's past Christmas already, donations do tend to slow down, so he supposes it will be welcomed.

As for the house per se, he had to wait but finally the confirmation came: UK State officially changes his status to widower. 

He doesn't see Mary's body. He doesn't ask what happened to it, and explicitly tells MI6 this is not information he needs. The only thing he keeps is the wedding photobook, something that initially didn't even cross his mind.

'How did you get this?' he asks Sherlock, who is in his downstairs lab with Rosie, showing her how homemade lava lamps are done.

Both turn to look at him behind protective goggles. Rosie's face is almost entirely hidden by it. 'You were going to throw it away.'

'Which doesn't answer my question.' he replies from under his teeth. Rosie has already drifted back to the lava lamp. 'I clearly remember the album being at the house, which I _did not_ visit before being emptied.'

Sherlock squirms a bit, avoids his eyes. 'You can't just bin everything related to her.'

If Sherlock would just look at him again, he would see incredulity written all over his face. 'And why the hell not, pray tell?'

'The hell!' Rosie repeats after him. He sighs.

'Shouldn't say that, Watson, you know dada gets annoyed when you repeat his curses.'

'Sherlock.'

'She's going to ask after her, ok?' he answers with a sudden movement that makes his curls bounce against his forehead. 'You can't just pretend she didn't exist her whole life. Of course she needs to get older to hear the potentially upsetting explanation about her mother being a murderer and serial criminal, and you'll probably want to omit not giving in to her ransom which lead to her ultimate death and why she doesn't have a grave to be visited, but she will want to at least know who she was.'

John gapes at him for a long moment, and drops his eyes to the album in his hand. It was hidden in a box at the top of their wardrobe. He didn't remember it being there yesterday, so he took it out to check what it was. Turns out Sherlock had rescued it. He opens it and flicks over some pages. There is her all over the place, but he also can see Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson. One picture shows Janine with Sherlock. Chief bridesmaid and best man. He still can't fathom how they became a thing, even if it was for a case.

After that there is one picture of him and Sherlock. He smiles at it. It looks like they are the ones getting married. He had stoically endured the wedding vows like something he was supposed to do. They haven't even written the thing themselves, opting for repeating the ceremony default. He barely remembers how that went. The best man's speech, though, made him tear up, a very uncommon occurrence.

'You're right.' is all he offers, and leaves them to their experiments.

Since the house is on Mary Watson's name, and there's no legal will for her, it's his property now. Same can't be said about the car abandoned in Swansea, since the owner was Carla Deprez, nor any of the money Mary had in hidden accounts. The house is definitely his to be sold, which is what he does.

By the end of January an interested buyer finally makes a move, after one desistance mid negotiations almost a month ago. It's a couple with two primary school age kids. They go back and forth for a while after visiting with John's estate agent, until they settle a reasonable price. John goes with Mrs. Hudson as a witness, who had been rather bored at home after fighting again with Mr. Chatterjee. Sherlock stayed behind to give a consultation on a case Lestrade was working on. He also clearly stated it would be tedious.

After they both sign the transfer contract and finish the transaction, Mrs. Hudson suggests stopping at a cafe to have something fancy. It's a hard cold day and as usual he never has gloves on, which means burying his hands on the coat pockets to alleviate the numbness in his fingers. Coffee is very welcoming right now. He is, however, still unemployed, he probably shouldn't.

'You must at least celebrate, John!' she is adamant on convincing him. 'I'm sure you haven't been irresponsible with your finances, you'll be fine.'

'Right. Yeah, you know what, that's true. Let's go.'

'Mrs. Turner now has a phone too.' she tells him over _caffe corretto_. 'Her daughter gifted it on Christmas. Now we can message each other, isn't it fun? How do I forward messages? There's this video of a himbo gentleman afraid of getting his flu shots, I bet you'll laugh.'

He doesn't know what a himbo is and something in his gut tells him she shouldn't ask. 'Oh Mrs. Hudson, I'm actually having memory trouble on my phone, I don't think I can receive any more videos before I delete stuff.'

'I bet there are a ton of videos of that silly man you are not showing me.' she scolds with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

He laughs. 'Actually I have. Come here, let's see some.'

He does have a memory issue, probably due to the amount of videos he takes and never uploads to a cloud storage. The main subjects are obviously Sherlock and Rosie, with individual and paired categories. He scrolls back to when Rosie was still a baby, Sherlock gives her a bath and she splashes water and soap right over his face. Mrs. Hudson nearly collapses of laughter.

Suddenly he realises he truly digged deep when the pictures from the Brighton exile appear. Sherlock in a sugar induced comatose sprawled on the hotel's sofa. Rosie playing on the carpet. The stormy night where Sherlock talked to her about the science of thunders until she calmed down. He doesn't remember the video at all beyond the vague description of what happened, so he plays it.

'_... the sounds actually come after the light, which is created by electric discharge between clouds or between a cloud and the ground or any object on the ground. The electricity is formed when ice and water particles move around rapidly inside the clouds. The heat of the lightning causes thunder. As the hot electrical charge passes through the air, it heats up the air._' on-screen Sherlock recites to Rosie, back to the camera.

'He talks a lot, that boy.' she says fondly. 'Impressive posture too, while holding a baby.'

'_We can see lighting only at night because the sky is dark. Earth's rotation means we are distant from the sun at night, but obviously other luminous bodies such as stars could serve the same purpose, but after many theories trying to explain the paradox, the most recent and accepted one is that stars's light dim after billions of years distance and are not enough to fill all the gaps… _' he continues, just before a thunder cuts the sound. John frowns at it.

'His voice is perfect for putting babies to sleep, isn't… what?'

He is largely ignoring her already, and rewinds a bit the video.

'_... because the sky is dark. Earth's rotation means we are distant from the sun at night, but obviously other luminous bodies... _'

'John?'

He watches the phone screen without really seeing it. In his head there's only Sherlock's voice saying _Earth's rotation means we are distant from the sun at night_.

'Are you having an earthquake?'

He blinks, looking at her again. 'I'm sorry, what?'

'It's something Sherlock says sometimes.' she pats him on the shoulder. 'Are you ok?'

'Yes. Yes! Mrs. Hudson, did you finish your coffee? I need to get home.'

He tries not to rush, since there's no reason to, but it's hard to not bounce anxiously. At Baker Street he thanks Mrs. Hudson and sees her to her flat, before running to Sherlock's office.

He is at his desk, and Rosie sleeps on the carpet in front of it, surrounded by toys. Sherlock gets up at the sight of him. 'I'm sorry John, I didn't notice her getting sleepy while talking to Lestrade, and I thought it was best not to move her- hmmf'

John puts his palm over Sherlock's whispering mouth. 'You studied the solar system.'

Sherlock's eyes above his fingers evoke the question mark face.

'I tried for years to get you interested in astronomy, as a joke.' he says still holding his hand in place. 'And you refused to even talk about it. But you studied, you were able to lecture Rosie back in Brighton on why the sky gets dark. Why did you study the solar system?'

He removes his hand, but Sherlock remains quiet. He waits. Eventually, Sherlock sighs. 'Why do you want me to say it?' he asks, frowning at John's shoulder.

'Humour me.'

'Kids ask questions about everything.' he replies under his breath.

'Not a few months old kids.'

'It's better to be prepared, you know how I am.' he says, very defensive. John smiles softly.

'I do.'

He moves to the box of his desk stuff, still set aside in plain sight, takes the papers hidden there for god knows how long now, and hands them to Sherlock. He reads them confused at first, lips moving as he reads silently to himself. He shakes his head a bit and goes back to the top of the document. John waits.

'Are you… are you sure of this?' his voice reads neutral.

'I would never show you this if I wasn't.' he replies firmly. 'Are _you_ sure?'

Sherlock's lips keep threatening to lift up. He then looks at John from under his eyelashes. 'John, I studied the solar system. What do you think?'

John has been very patient the whole day, so he waits for Sherlock to sign the adoption papers before making him drop everything at the desk, taking the amazing jawline in his hands and pulling his lips to himself.


	30. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost finishing!!! Yayyy

For all purposes, Sherlock is again his inspiration. Hating dealing with hierarchy and bureaucracy, he creates a brand new profession and self-employs. This is not an easy road for anyone, even for brilliant mad gorgeous geniuses like him.

'I did go homeless for around six months.' the man himself tells him while watching John pushing Rosie on the swings. She's a bit afraid at first so he does it very gently. 'How do you think I formed my network?'

'I'm… how? I can't fathom this.' he'’ trying really hard not to sound shocked. Sherlock Holmes, in pristine suits and limited edition coat and a shelf full of hair cosmetics, living on the streets? 'What were your parents doing? What about Mycroft? How did you fly off his radar? How did he _let_ you?'

Sherlock follows a squirrel with his gaze, running up a tree. 'He wasn't always like that. If anything, my escapade was his motivation. I realised after he found me he went hysterical when he couldn't contact me, nor find any address with my name on the lease. This of course led to the state you're more familiar with: overbearing, interfering and extremely nosy.'

'He's probably afraid you'll disappear on him again, you know.'

He just shrugs. 'As for my parents, well. You met them, they can be as affectionate as one expects parents to, but they are not really attached. Mummy went back to academia after I went to boarding school, following Mycroft's lead. Dad was always doing something, or after her. They weren't neglectful, but not much present, so I'm not even sure they were aware of what was going on.'

Not knowing their youngest is living on the streets sounds a bit neglectful to John, but given his own strained family relationships, he says nothing. 'But what exactly happened? Did you suddenly run out of money?'

A woman in her thirties approaches the neighbour swing with her own daughter, who looks around five. She coos Rosie, telling the kid "Look babe, you have a little friend with you!" and smiles at John, who nods in acknowledgment. The little girl starts swinging herself as the woman goes around it to remove herself from the line of fire. Once behind the kid - and beside John, she smiles at him again. John looks forward, cleaning his throat.

'She looks like you.' she says suddenly.

'Ah, well. Genetics!' he replies trying not to look at her, very conscious of Sherlock's sudden silence.

'She's beautiful. Is her mom with you?' she looks around as if to illustrate looking for the mother. John finds quite strange how uncomfortable he is.

'Passed away.' he says bracing himself for what he knows comes after. 

'Oh, I'm so sorry! Must be hard on you.'

He just presses his lips and raises his eyebrow once, avoiding an answer.

'I live in Primhose Hill. Are you also near here?'

'It's a terrible idea to give your location to random strangers who could for all you know stalk you and murder you.'

The woman gapes at Sherlock, as if suddenly aware he's standing right beside John. 'Excuse me?'

'Murder?'

All three adults turn to Rosie, who is looking expectantly over her shoulder, still strapped to the swings. Sherlock quickly moves to remove and lift her. 'Yes, Watson, murder unfortunately is somewhat lacking in our repertoire lately, but I'm sure Lestrade will bring us a nice cold case to unveil. John, I'll take her to the slide.' he deposits a mhwaa kiss on John's forehead and strides away without another word or looking back.

He just waves to the horrified mother and follows him. They end up giving up on the slide due to a bunch of older kids jumping around it, and it's probably not safe for still toddler Rosie, who is perfectly content sitting on the sandbox with a toy shovel and bucket. They sit on a bench right in front of it to watch her.

John takes the opportunity to slide his arm around Sherlock's waist. None of them are much for PDA, but Sherlock is welcoming, tilting his body an inch to his direction. 'You don't have to worry, you know?'.

A huff is his only reply.

'Just avoid talking about murder in front of the kids, I don't want to be expelled from places. And we already had a complaint from the nursery about Rosie picking up adult words, whatever that means.'

'Mm.'

He stares at the strong profile watching Rosie like a hawk, decides to put himself on the spot to make it even. 'I was deadly jealous of Irene Adler.'

_That_ gains his attention. '_Irene_?' he asks incredulously. 'Why on Earth would you be jealous of her?'

'And Molly, and Janine, if we are making a list.'

'This is completely irrational. I don't even like women, I told you on the first day we met.'

'Technically second. And many times jealousy isn't logical anyway. I just wanted to say that… I don't see myself going out there ever again, ok? I don't even entertain the possibility. I don't just say I love you to anyone.'

They quietly watch open a hole in the sand and bury the bucket in it. Without warning, Sherlock dips his head and gives a lingering peck on his lips. John wants badly to entangle himself all over him, but he would never in public, and Sherlock knows that, so he swiftly settles back against John't arm still around his waist.

'Before we were interrupted, you were saying how you ended up on the streets after going jobless.' he pinches his waist playfully.

'Oh, yes. Not having finished my degree even after I came back from rehab the first time meant I couldn't properly be hired as a chemist. Had small jobs here and there, until Mycroft took pity on me living in a dumpster flat and managed to arrange a small assistant position for me in the MI6. Brainless boring tasks, they never let me in any real cases. I started a blog with my applied chemistry essays, just to have an escape from it. Also started using drugs again. I actually met Mrs. Hudson during that time, accompanying an agent to Florida. I helped her all by myself, going off-route on him. Eventually after coming back, I got enough of it and decided to end my contract and go freelance. I did it once, could do it again. Left pamphlets around and everything. But with no reliable income and a drug habit, you end up in a position where you can't pay rent anymore.'

'So, homeless.'

'Yes, but still working. Talking to people in the same situation, hearing about problems from unusual channels, solving those problems and receiving back favours. My work was becoming solid, cocaine could mask the hunger. Mycroft found me six months later by chance, agreed to pay rent for a little while if I kicked out the drugs and came back working for him. I rejected the job. Freelance is what truly works for me. Trying to let go cocaine was a bit harder, but I met Lestrade at the time, in a crime scene. Saw the potential of giving consultations applying all my knowledge. The only issue was that he refused to even talk to me if I was high. So I went to rehab once more, and after that back to London to work fully as you know. Getting more and more clients, and finally a career reputation.'

'You really worked yourself from the bottom to the top.'

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, and his left hand is now close enough for him to reach and capture John's hand from over his waist. 'You can do that too. If you are unhappy with the current way of managing your life, change it. It's always hard in the beginning, but you recover. And you have a support system I didn't. We are not going homeless if you stop trying to fit in a surgery.'

'I just don't know where to go.' he presses his palm over his brow in frustration. 'What do I even have? A blog I haven't updated in over two years?'

Unexpectedly, Sherlock smiles at him. 'John, you are asking advice from the world's only consulting detective.'

He gets up and stretches his hand to help John get up. 'You need a profession on your own, and we're going to find it together.'


	31. Embrace

'It is.'

'It is _not_'

'It certainly is.'

'I don't thi-'

'Please go on, I have the whole day to wait for you guys to discuss it.'

'This is a crucial decision, Detective Inspector.' Sherlock argues, leaning forward in his office chair. 'In fact, on our website there's a whole blog post about the difference between illegal and prescription drugs accidents, in which-'

'This is pretty much rhetorical, considering both of you profit equally from the work partnership, even if you like to pretend otherwise in the website.'

'We offer integrated services, actually. He just wants to go back playing Cluedo with Mrs. Hudson, Donovan.' John smiles pleasantly, skim-reading the case folder. Sherlock throws back at him the sheet containing the toxicology report of the deceased woman, possible murder victim. She is a kidney donor, who was found with a considerate amount of naproxen in her system, resulting in kidney failure and death. DI Donovan suspects the administration was not accidental, nor she was conscious of the intake. 'He was winning for once. And while I agree misuse of medication fits the Health And Death Division criteria, the coroner work already found that out. We need to know _how_ she ended up taking naproxen since it wasn't by force, which is _your division_ Sherlock.'

His response is to recline almost horizontally against the chair, groaning at the ceiling. '_Fine_! But I'll need more detailed pictures of her house.' he points at Sally, as if emphasising it, and then side-eyes John at the other end of the L table. 'And don't think I'm not aware you are pushing this to me conveniently two days before the deadline your publisher gave you.'

John just gives him a salute and hands over the folder back to Donovan, who is getting up to leave.

'Marissa is on forensics for this one, she's generally agreeable on your antics. I'll ask her to email you. You're sure you don't want to take a look yourself?'

'Nope. It's school holiday, John will be locking himself up because he **procrastinated**' he highlights this with his chin on John's general direction 'his latest book and I'd prefer to maintain my five-years old away from crime scenes, thank you very much.'

'Up to you.' she shrugs, already at the door, before turning to John. 'This one will be another on gory medical stuff or fake fiction about spy Gregory House and his smarter than he looks assistant James Wilson?'

John giggles and Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Medical actually. About healthcare crimes. I can send you a copy if you want, but it will take some months.'

'I liked The Afghan War. Talking about healthcare crimes, good thing you two did in that case of patients being sexually abused. Stella told me you systematised the evidence and counselled them on how to report to the Met.'

'Just please don't advertise our involvement.'

'I know the drill, Holmes.' she replies matter-of-fact. 'Talk to you later.' and closes the door behind her.

They gather their things to close the office. As it is a bank holiday, no clients are scheduled for the day, to any of them. Donovan came in as favour they still permit, on the condition of not being too gruesome. Sherlock mainly delegates legwork to his Irregulars, who have been receiving extensive training for almost two years now. John has his own share of clients from the _Holmes&Watson co._, and they both collaborate when the crime requires it, but Sherlock still keeps a biggest part of the workload purely by path dependence.

Sherlock keeps telling him that he took years to reach this level, and it's too soon for John to have an independent reputation, but John is honestly not bothered. He likes to spend his time writing, the one job he truly embraced these last years, and frequency means his speed typing is actually getting better, although not as quick as his partner's. 

Initially he wrote a work of fiction, about House and Wilson, obviously heavily based on their own experiences, and the book had been divided in two for commercial purposes. He named House after Greg, who almost pissed himself of laughter when he found out. Sherlock had read them before he even sent them to a publisher. He had ignored the name joke, and had said he would be interested in his backstory.

He had needed to go to a different publisher, who was actually interested in The Afghan War, a compilation of reflections on what he's seen and gone through, the army mindset and how encounters with locals changed his whole perspective on the british role in the Middle East. His editor liked the personal touch to what otherwise would be sanitised facts on the war, and had suggested working on his other areas of knowledge, and that's how his medical work transpired. 

'Next time you could work with me on that narcotics idea.' he tries once again to convince Sherlock to co-author with him as they ascend the stairs to their living room. 'A chemist input would be pretty valuable.'

'Oh, that is questionless.' he pushes the door open. 'But what pseudonym would fit AC Doyle?'

Rosie is on the floor, trying to assemble a skeleton puzzle she was gifted by Molly. Sherlock sits down beside her, who explains the skeleton has no elbows, how can he lift a spoon? Talking in full sentences was the greatest milestone achieved by her, as finally Sherlock can have full two-sided and entirely inappropriate conversations about bugs, science and body parts.

'I don't know, Sigerson?'

Sherlock looks up at him, brow deeply furrowed. 'What kind of name is Sigerson?'

He shrugs and gives up on this (for now), plants a kiss on both heads before going to sit at his desk and finish his write-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who followed this fic to the end, who subscribed, bookmarked and kudoed. A special thanks to everyone who commented it, I didn't expect so many lovely and kind comments on this fic. I talk about it a bit, and also what's next for me here: https://thanks-mike-stamford.tumblr.com/post/630363288231886848/show-chapter-archive 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, and see you soon! :D


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